ANNE 


ANNE 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

OLGA  HARTLEY 


PHILADELPHIA 
J.  B.   LIPPINGOTT  COMPANY 


TO    MY    DEAR    BROTHER 

LYNN 

WHO  WAS  KILLED  LEADING  HM  MEN  INTO  ACTION  AT  THE 
BATTLE  OF  BAPAUMK,  AUGUST  23RD,  1918,  WHILE  SERVING 
AS  SECOND  LIEUTENANT  tH  THE  EAST  SURREY  RKGIMENT 

"If  (according  to  man)  I  fought  with  beasts  at  Ephesws,  what  doth  it 
profit  me  if  the  dead  rise  not  again  ?  "—  1  Cor.  XT.  32. 


2136974 


ANNE 


CHAPTER   I 

A  STORM  of  sleet  and  rain  blurred  the  windows  of  the 
train  as  Gilbert  Trevor  travelled  from  Norfolk  to 
Yorkshire  one  cold  spring  day.  It  was  a  tiresome 
cross-country  journey  and  he  hated  boredom,  but 
his  thin  young  face,  already  faintly  marked  with  the 
lines  about  the  eyes  and  mouth  that  betoken  those 
who  follow  the  profession  of  the  law,  looked  out  at 
the  wet  landscape  with  an  expression  of  interest  that 
was  not  excited  by  the  grey  skies  reflected  in  the 
gleaming  flooded  fields  on  the  plains,  nor  by  the 
sombre  brown  moors  as  he  neared  his  destination. 
Twice  he  re-read  a  letter  that  he  carried  in  his  waist- 
coat pocket.  It  was  written  in  a  scholarly,  difficult 
scrawl  on  cheap  grey  paper. 

"  39  LENNOX  TERRACE, 

ST.  HILDA'S  BAY. 
DEAR  SIRS, 

I  see  in  the  daily  paper  some  reference  to 
the  death  of  the  late  Nathaniel  Trevor  of  Crane 
Hall,  Brankburgh.  I  had  not  heard  of  his  death 
or  I  should  have  written  before.  You  may  or  may 
not  be  aware  that  the  late  Mr.  Trevor  had,  during 


2  ANNE 

his  lifetime,  made  a  verbal  arrangement  with  his 
friend,  Colonel  O'Shaughnessy,  by  which  he  tem- 
porarily remitted  a  certain  sum  of  money  due  to 
him.  It  was  a  matter  of  three  thousand  pounds, 
and  I  am  bound  to  own  that  Colonel  O'Shaughnessy 
regarded  himself  to  be  under  a  strict  obligation 
to  repay  the  debt.  When  he  died  suddenly  last 
year  I  discovered  that  he  had  only  three  thousand 
and  a  few  odd  pounds  in  the  world.  I  wrote  to 
the  late  Mr.  Trevor  asking  him  to  forgo  whatever 
claim  he  had  upon  the  estate,  as  there  is  a  child 
to  support  and  educate.  In  his  will,  which  I 
believe  to  be  invalid  as  it  is  neither  dated  nor 
witnessed,  Colonel  O'Shaughnessy  appointed  the 
late  Mr.  Trevor  to  be  the  child's  guardian — this  I 
also  mentioned  when  I  wrote,  but  my  letter  re- 
mained unanswered.  I  am  therefore  writing  to 
ask  you  whether,  if  you  have  the  intention  of 
calling  in  money  due  to  the  late  Mr.  Trevor,  you 
will  be  good  enough  to  waive  any  legal  claim  you 
may  have  to  the  three  thousand  pounds,  as  the 
claim,  if  pressed,  will  leave  an  unfortunate  orphan 
practically  penniless. 

Yours  faithfully, 

JOHN  HALLIDAY. 
To  the  Executors  of  the  late  Nathaniel  Trevor." 

"It  is  an  old  tale — and  a  most  unbusinesslike 
letter,"  Gilbert  Trevor  assured  himself  for  the  third 
time ;  yet  at  twenty-six  he  was  young  enough  to 
be  grateful  to  the  unknown  writer,  even  though  he 
proved  to  be  a  swindler,  for  giving  him  the  excuse 
he  had  so  gladly  seized  upon  for  escaping  from  his 
grandfather's  lawyers,  whose  unconcealed  pity  for 


ANNE  3 

his  disappointment  in  his  grandfather's  estate  had 
galled  his  pride.  He  had  affronted  the  Warneford 
solicitor  by  evading  all  discussion  about  the  various 
ways  his  grandfather  had  wasted  his  money,  not 
that  piety  prevented  him  from  speaking  ill  of  the 
dead,  but  because  pride  made  him  reluctant  to 
criticise  a  member  of  his  own  family ;  and  any  con- 
versation about  his  grandfather  inevitably  led  to 
criticism.  He  had  instructed  the  agent  to  let  the 
old  house  as  soon  as  possible  at  whatever  rent  he 
could  get  to  whatever  tenants  he  could  find. 

He  had  no  pleasant  associations  with  Crane  Hall. 
His  rare  visits  to  his  grandfather  in  his  schooldays 
had  not  been  socially  successful.  He  saw  himself  a 
shy,  awkward  little  boy  oppressed  by  the  necessity 
of  being  on  his  best  behaviour,  half-scared  by  his 
grandfather's  gruff  voice  and  sarcastic  tongue.  He 
had  no  sentimental  regrets  about  letting  the  place 
to  strangers.  Nevertheless  he  resented  the  necessity 
because  he  felt  cheated  out  of  a  sensation  that  would 
have  amused  him.  It  would  have  interested  him  to 
have  the  house  and  estate  to  use  and  enjoy.  There 
was  nothing  interesting  or  amusing  in  having  the 
possession  as  a  responsibility,  in  regarding  the  house 
with  the  eyes  of  a  landlord  instead  of  a  host.  If  he 
could  not  afford  to  live  in  the  place,  and  fill  it  with 
congenial  people,  the  sooner  Ross  and  Allendale 
filled  it  with  tenants  who  would  spare  him  the 
necessity  of  worrying  about  the  expenses  of  its 
maintenance  the  better  he  would  be  pleased.  Instead 
of  going  back  to  London  with  a  happy  sense  of  power 
and  benevolence  assured  by  the  possession  of  a  good 
income,  a  large  house,  and  a  hospitable  disposition, 
to  be  congratulated  by  friends  and  acquaintances, 


4  ANNE 

he  would  go  back  with  a  sense  of  failure.  His  posi- 
tion, instead  of  being  enviable,  would  be  rather 
foolish  ;  it  was  futile,  flat,  and  poor-spirited  to  own 
a  house  one  could  not  set  foot  in  and  an  income 
swallowed  up  by  repairs  to  roofs  and  railings. 

In  his  grandfather's  desk  an  I.O.U.  for  three  thou- 
sand pounds  signed  by  Terence  Edward  O'Shaugh- 
nessy  had  been  discovered  in  an  old  notebook. 
Gilbert  had  searched  in  vain  for  some  clue  to  it. 
Nathaniel  Trevor  had  not  been  the  man  to  cherish 
old  letters  ;  his  desk  contained  nothing  but  orchid- 
importers'  lists,  prospectuses  of  speculative  com- 
panies, the  pedigrees  of  some  prize  bulls,  and  a  copy 
of  the  rules  of  the  Constitutional  Club.  None  of  these 
documents  threw  any  light  on  Colonel  O'Shaughnessy 
and  his  affairs.  Gilbert  had  put  the  I.O.U.  in  his 
pocket,  and  resolved  to  go  to  Yorkshire,  confront 
John  Halliday,  whoever  he  was,  and  demand  the 
three  thousand  pounds,  unless  Mr.  Halliday  on  his 
side  could  produce  an  authenticated  orphan.  He 
profoundly  disbelieved  in  the  orphan's  existence,  but 
his  sudden  decision  to  go  to  St.  Hilda's  Bay  had 
cheered  him.  It  was  an  excellent  excuse  for  getting 
away  immediately  from  a  house  in  which  he  did  not 
wish  to  spend  another  twenty-four  hours,  and  from 
circumstances  that  held  no  zest  for  him.  An  excur- 
sion after  an  unknown  man  who,  for  an  unknown 
reason,  was  endeavouring  to  defraud  him  would  be 
a  more  entertaining  adventure  to  relate  than  dispirit- 
ing interviews  with  agents,  and  bankers,  and  solicitors. 
As  Gilbert's  train  neared  the  Yorkshire  coast  the 
clouds  broke  into  dishevelled  masses,  and  a  pale 
sunshine  lit  up  the  desolate  moors  and  flooded 
St.  Hilda's  Bay  with  an  amber  sunset  light  when 


ANNE  5 

he  arrived  in  the  late  afternoon  at  the  station  by  the 
harbour. 

The  old  fishing  town  lies  low  round  the  sheltered 
quays  :  the  little  red-roofed  houses  all  lying  close 
together  as  if  for  companionship's  sake,  and  friendli- 
ness, and  for  fear  of  the  fierce  North  Sea  and  the  wild 
north  winds.  The  new  town,  tall  grey  houses  in 
terraces  and  crescents  with  great  hotels,  stands  high 
up  on  the  West  Cliff,  facing  the  open  sea  and  turning 
its  back  on  the  faded  red  roofs,  the  green  pool  of  the 
harbour,  and  the  uneven  old  stone  quays.  Gilbert 
walked  up  to  the  hotel  recommended  by  the  station- 
master,  past  the  harbour  where  the  fishing-boats  were 
moored  in  a  tangle  of  ropes  and  masts  and  furled 
brown  sails.  A  crowd  of  restless  sea-gulls  in  a  state 
of  delirious  excitement  circled  shrieking  overhead,  and 
the  salt  air  was  strongly  flavoured  with  the  smell  of 
fish  and  tar. 

Gilbert  engaged  a  room  at  the  White  Hart,  the 
large  white  hotel  perched  on  the  cliff  above  the  crazy 
jumble  of  red  roofs  ;  then  he  went  forth  to  find 
Lennox  Terrace. 

Following  the  directions  of  the  hotel  porter,  he  bore 
away  from  the  aristocratic  crescent  of  hotels  and 
boarding-houses  facing  the  sea,  and,  turning  through 
various  by-ways,  he  found  Lennox  Terrace  to  be  a  long 
steep  street  curving  down  from  the  prosperous  heights 
of  the  West  Cliff  towards  the  crazy  little  yards  and 
slums  of  the  old  town,  which,  viewed  from  the  top 
of  the  hill,  had  the  appearance  of  a  very  badly  made 
patchwork  quilt.  In  Lennox  Terrace  all  the  red- 
brick villas  were  exactly  alike  in  structure,  from  the 
chimney-pots  to  the  cheap  cast-iron  railings  round 
the  six-foot-deep  front  gardens.  Every  house  dis- 


6  ANNE 

played  a  card  to  advertise  rooms  to  let.  Some  of 
them  had  green  cards  with  "  Apartments  "  in  gold 
letters,  others  white  cards  with  "  Lodgings  "  in  black 
letters  ;  those  were  the  only  differences  between  one 
house  and  another,  except  that  some  of  the  tiny 
gardens  had  a  wind-blown  shrub  in  the  centre  of  a 
patch  of  grass,  or  an  empty  flower-bed,  and  other 
gardens  were  merely  plots  of  shingle.  Number  39 
had  the  same  appearance  as  every  other  house 
in  the  street,  the  appearance  of  poverty — not  the 
picturesque,  grinning,  unabashed  poverty  of  the 
courts  and  alleys  by  the  harbour  side,  but  the  shame- 
faced, worried,  shrinking  poverty  that  is  unhappily 
struggling  not  to  recognise  nor  divulge  its  own 
existence. 

The  bell  at  Number  39  seemed  to  be  broken,  so 
Gilbert  knocked  on  the  door,  which  was  opened 
presently  by  a  small  middle-aged  woman  with  bright 
black  eyes  and  the  scantiest  allowance  of  hair  he 
had  ever  seen  on  a  female  head. 

"  Does  Mr.  John  Halliday  live  here  ?  "  enquired 
Gilbert. 

"  Yes  he  does."  But  the  woman  seemed  more 
inclined  to  shut  the  door  than  to  open  it  further. 

"  Is  he  in  ?  " 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ? "  enquired  the 
custodian  of  the  house.  The  question  was  obviously 
the  result  of  caution  and  not  curiosity.  Gilbert  was 
relieved  to  find  that  "  Brankburgh,  Norfolk "  re- 
assured her.  She  stood  aside  and  let  him  into  a 
narrow  passage  papered  with  a  varnished  paper  that 
simulated  some  hideous  marble  that  was  never 
quarried  on  this  planet.  The  atmosphere  was  per- 
vaded by  a  curious  smell  that  contained,  among  other 


ANNE  7 

ingredients,  dried  haddock,  boiled  cauliflower,  and 
escaping  gas.  The  woman  then  asked  his  name,  and 
a  look  of  interest  and  excitement  lit  up  her  face  at 
the  word  "  Trevor."  She  opened  the  nearest  door, 
put  her  head  into  a  room  and  drew  it  back  as  quickly 
as  if  something  inside  had  tried  to  bite  her. 

"  He'll  be  upstairs,  if  you  don't  mind  the  stairs." 

Correctly  interpreting  this  sentence  as  an  invita- 
tion to  follow  her  to  a  floor  above,  Gilbert  went  up 
two  flights  of  creaking  stairs  carpeted  with  a  narrow 
strip  of  linoleum  worn  into  a  hole  on  each  step.  On 
the  second  floor  she  tapped  at  a  door,  opened  it 
three  inches,  called  in  : 

"  Here's  Mr.  Trevor  from  Norfolk  come  to  see  you," 
and  ushered  Gilbert  into  Mr.  Halliday's  bedroom. 

A  tall  young  man  with  rough  fair  hair,  wearing  a 
shabby  tweed  suit,  started  up  to  greet  him — a  sur- 
prised young  man  of  about  twenty-three. 

"  Awfully  glad  to  see  you  !  Awfully  sorry  the  room 
is  in  such  a  beastly  mess.  How  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  Are  you  Mr.  John  Halliday  ?  " 

Gilbert  had  pictured  an  older,  more  hardened 
sinner,  and  the  untidy  young  man's  boyish,  clean- 
shaven face  had  a  good  forehead,  honest  brown  eyes, 
and  a  straight-lipped  steady  mouth. 

"  I  am ;  I  suppose  you've  come  in  answer  to  my 
letter  ?  Jolly  good  of  you  to  fag  all  this  way. 
Where'll  you  sit  ?  Take  the  chair,  won't  you  ?  " 

There  was  one  chair  in  the  room,  a  table  covered 
with  an  untidy  mass  of  papers,  a  triangular  tin 
washing-stand,  which  apparently  served  Mr.  Halliday 
as  a  hat-rack  too,  as  a  cap  hung  on  a  corner  of  it,  a 
bed,  also  covered  with  papers  and  books,  and  a  deal 
chest  of  drawers  in  a  similar  plight.  There  were  also 


8  ANNE 

papers  in  the  chair,  but  Mr.  Halliday  tilted  them  on 
to  the  floor. 

"  I'm  editor  of  the  St.  Hilda's  Bay  Gazette,"  he 
explained  with  an  odd  mixture  of  modesty  and 
importance.  "  That's  why  the  place  gets  snowed 
under  like  this.  Now  what  can  I  offer  you  ?  " 

Having  made  the  hospitable  suggestion  Mr.  Halli- 
day looked  round  the  little  room  with  some  per- 
plexity ;  except  the  water  in  the  jug  in  the 
washing-stand,  and  the  soap,  there  didn't  seem 
anything  to  offer. 

"  Nothing,  thanks.  You'll  forgive  me  coming 
without  warning,  but  .  .  ." 

"  That's  all  right — most  sporting  of  you,  and  jolly 
kind." 

"  I'm  the  late  Mr.  Trevor's  grandson  and  heir." 

"  I  hope  you  didn't  mind  me  writing  about  that 
money  ?  I  thought  there  was  no  harm  in  asking,  you 
know." 

"  That,  of  course,  is  what  I've  come  about.  I 
didn't  understand  your  letter." 

"  I  suppose  you  wondered  where  I  came  in  ?  Of 
course,  it  isn't  my  business  at  all  really — only  you 
see,  in  a  sort  of  way  I  happen  to  be  in  charge  of 
Colonel  O'Shaughnessy's  orphan — had  to  have  a 
shot  at  doing  the  best  for  the  kid." 

"  Your  letter  didn't  explain  a  word  about  the 
child,  neither  age  nor  sex  nor  anything." 

"  That  was  my  artfulness,"  explained  John  Halli- 
day with  a  cheerful,  guileless  grin.  "  It  seemed  to 
me  only  fair  to  you  that  the  case  should  be  decided 
on  its  own  merits  and  not  on  the  merits  of  the 
orphan." 

Gilbert  began  to  like  the  untidy  young  man. 


ANNE  9 

"  As  a  lawyer  I  appreciate  your  point ;  but  if  I 
guarantee  to  decide  the  case  on  its  merits,  will  you 
agree  to  satisfy  my  curiosity  as  a  man  and  produce 
the  orphan  ?  " 

"  No  difficulty  about  that — she'll  produce  herself 
at  tea-time.  She's  a  girl — fifteen  on  her  last  birth- 
day, and  her  name  is  Anne.  She  doesn't  know  any- 
thing about  this  business — she's  only  a  kid." 

"  What  exactly  is  this  business  ?  I  mean,  have 
you  any  idea  how  the  debt  of  three  thousand  pounds 
was  contracted  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  it  was  a  gambling  debt,"  said  John 
Halliday  airily,  quite  unconscious  of  the  unpleasant- 
ness of  the  surprise  his  words  inflicted  upon  his  visitor. 
"  Those  two  old  gentlemen,  Colonel  O'Shaughnessy 
and  your  grandfather,  seem  to  have  gone  in  for  it 
hot  and  strong — played  cards  for  any  old  stake, 
every  penny  they'd  either  of  them  got,  and  in  the 
long  run  the  Colonel  got  the  worst  of  it." 

"  I'd  no  idea,"  began  Gilbert,  both  annoyed  and 
confused.  "  Of  course  in  that  case  I  shouldn't 
dream  of  claiming — of  profiting.  .  .  ." 

John  Halliday  glanced  at  him  quickly  and  sym- 
pathetically. 

"  Colonel  O'Shaughnessy  never  had  any  idea  of 
repudiating  the  debt,"  he  said.  "  He  said  it  was 
a  debt  of  honour  and  his  one  thought  was  to  win 
enough  money  off  someone  else  to  pay  it." 

"  I  never  met  Colonel  O'Shaughnessy,  never  heard 
of  him — hadn't  seen  my  grandfather  since  I  was  a 
schoolboy,  owing  to  family  rows,  so  I  don't  know 
anything  of  his  affairs,"  Gilbert  explained,  his  per- 
sonal pride  on  the  defensive.  "  Of  course  the  debt  is 
cancelled." 


10  ANNE 

"  You've  only  my  word  for  it  so  far,"  pointed  out 
John  Halliday.  "  Look  here,  it's  cold  up  here.  Let's 
go  downstairs  where  there's  a  fire  and  I'll  tell  you  all 
I  know  about  the  business.  It's  like  old  Mother 
Mugford  to  bring  you  up  here,  instead  of  putting  you 
into  the  dining-room  and  calling  me  down." 

He  clattered  downstairs  into  the  room  with  the 
little  bow-window — a  room  cheaply  furnished  with 
odds  and  ends  of  furniture,  bits  of  household  wreckage 
salved  from  second-hand  sale-rooms.  But  there  was 
a  cheerful  fire,  and  preliminary  signs  of  a  forthcoming 
meal  on  the  table,  which  was  covered  with  a  white 
cloth — odd  cups  with  saucers  that  didn't  match 
each  other  on  a  black  tray,  and  a  plate  of  thick 
slices  of  bread  and  butter. 

There  were  two  arm-chairs  by  the  fire,  springless, 
with  stuffing  exuding  through  gaps  in  the  torn  leather 
covering,  and  rents  mended  inadequately  with  black 
cotton.  John  Halliday  drew  forward  for  Gilbert  the 
one  that  he  assured  him  was  the  most  comfortable, 
and  lay  back  in  the  other  himself. 

"  I  first  met  the  old  blighter  two  years  ago,  in  the 
British  Museum  Reading-room,"  he  began.  "  He, 
Colonel  O'Shaughnessy,  you  know,  was  sitting  next 
to  me.  I  was  looking  up  some  mediaeval  Miracle  plays, 
writing  an  article  on  them.  I  couldn't  make  the  old 
gentleman  out  at  all.  He  spoke  to  me,  didn't  under- 
stand the  catalogues  and  the  press  marks,  and  I 
helped  him  to  fill  up  his  tickets  for  the  books  he 
wanted.  He  was  working  out  some  system  of 
numbers  by  which  you  could  always  be  sure  of 
winning.  He  was  very  secretive  about  it  at  the  time, 
it  was  afterwards  he  told  me.  We  sat  next  to  each 
other  every  day  for  a  fortnight  and  then  he  was  ill 


ANNE  11 

there  one  day,  had  a  sort  of  fit  or  stroke.  I  helped  to 
get  him  out  and  I  took  him  home  to  his  lodgings  in 
Guildford  Street.  The  doctor  I  fetched  to  him  said 
he'd  better  get  away  from  London,  go  somewhere 
quiet  and  bracing,  all  that  sort  of  thing,  with  some- 
one to  look  after  him.  The  old  gentleman  seemed 
a  very  helpless,  lonely  sort  of  cove  and  asked  me  if 
I'd  go  with  him,  said  his  only  relation  was  a  little 
daughter  at  school.  I  was  at  rather  a  loose  end,  just 
having  lost  a  job,  besides  I  was  sorry  for  him ;  so  I 
said  '  righto  '  and  we  came  along  here.  I  don't  know 
exactly  why  we  came  here.  The  fact  was  we  neither 
of  us  had  any  particular  views  on  the  matter,  and 
this  is  one  of  the  places  the  doctor  suggested.  While 
we  were  here  the  old  man  (he  wasn't  more  than 
sixty,  but  he  seemed  more  than  that,  a  sort  of  Methu- 
selah) used  to  talk  for  hours  about  his  precious 
system.  He'd  had  one  it  seems,  that  he'd  sworn  by, 
and  he'd  tried  it  at  all  sorts  of  gaming-places  abroad. 
It  was  at  some  foreign  Casino  he'd  met  Mr. 
Trevor.  He'd  also  got  a  funny  system  he  swore 
by,  and  the  two  old  doddering  reprobates — excuse 
me,  but  your  grandfather  must  have  been  a 
blithering  ass  too,  you  know  —  fell  in  with  each 
other  and  backed  their  own  fancies  till  all  was  blue. 
The  Colonel  went  to  stay  at  your  place  in  Norfolk, 
and  they  gambled  all  night.  At  last  poor  old 
O'Shaughnessy  realised  his  luck  was  out,  so  he 
chucked  gaming  for  a  time  in  order  to  revise  and 
perfect  his  precious  system.  That's  what  he  was 
doing  in  the  British  Museum  when  I  picked  him  up. 
When  I'd  got  him  here  I  couldn't  keep  him  from 
haunting  the  hotels  and  playing  with  anyone  who'd 
put  up  stakes.  His  one  idea  was  to  win  back  more 


12  ANNE 

than  he'd  lost.  Luckily  he  was  a  most  awful  old  bore 
and  no  one  was  at  all  keen  on  being  bothered  with 
him,  or  he'd  have  lost  every  penny  I  expect.  The 
funny  thing  was  he'd  have  runs  of  good  luck  some- 
times that  were  awfully  bad  for  him  because  they 
bucked  him  up  and  excited  him,  and  made  him  worse 
than  ever." 

John  Halliday  looked  at  Gilbert  to  see  what  effect 
the  story  was  having  upon  him,  and  discovered  that 
he  was  both  humiliated  and  disgusted  with  the 
revelation  about  his  grandfather.  Rather  hurriedly, 
John  struck  another  note. 

"  I  must  say  he  was  never  tired  of  singing  your 
grandfather's  praises.  Mr.  Trevor  seems  to  have 
behaved  awfully  decently  to  him.  Lots  of  men  would 
have  taken  their  three  thousand  pounds  while  they 
were  sure  of  getting  it.  He  was  so  grateful  that  he 
mentioned  him  in  his  will  as  the  child's  guardian." 

"  I  can't  say  that  I'm  particularly  impressed  with 
the  decency  of  my  grandfather's  behaviour :  and 
you  wrote  that  he  never  answered  your  letter  on  that 
subject,"  said  Gilbert  drily. 

"  No,  he  never  answered  the  letter,"  admitted 
John,  "  and  of  course  both  of  'em  ought  to  have 
known  better  than  to  gamble  away  good  money. 
But  you  can  hardly  blame  your  grandfather  for  not 
troubling  his  head  about  the  kid  when  her  own 
father  never  gave  her  two  thoughts,  nor  a  ha'penny 
worth's  consideration." 

"  Didn't  he  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  blest  if  he  did,"  said  John  angrily.  "  He 
thought  he  did,  of  course ;  he  persuaded  himself  that 
all  his  anxiety  to  win  money  was  for  her.  That  used 
to  make  me  sick  with  him  because  he  obviously 


ANNE  13 

played  and  gambled  because  he  couldn't  help  it. 
If  he'd  cared  tuppence  about  her  really  he'd  have 
taken  care  of  his  money  instead  of  chucking  it  away. 
However,  after  he'd  been  here  some  time  and  I 
thought  his  health  was  better,  he  had  another  stroke, 
and  the  doctor  here  said  he  couldn't  last  very  long. 
I  asked  if  he  didn't  want  to  see  the  child.  He  said 
he  did,  so  I  went  off  to  fetch  her.  She  was  at  a 
boarding-school  at  Highgate.  She  was  quite  pleased 
to  come  away  from  it,  wasn't  happy  there ;  I  don't 
think  they  even  gave  her  enough  to  eat.  They 
seemed  quite  pleased  to  let  her  go  too.  I  fancy  her 
father  didn't  pay  the  school  fees  very  often.  1 
brought  her  along  here  and  he  lived  for  about  six 
months  after  that.  He  used  to  potter  about  with  her 
along  the  front,  and  then  one  night  he  must  have  had 
a  stroke  in  his  sleep.  He  was  dead  when  he  was 
called  in  the  morning." 

"  And  what  happened  to  the  child  ?  " 

"  Oh  well,  of  course  I  had  to  look  after  things. 
After  the  funeral  I  moved  round  here,  this  was 
cheaper  than  the  rooms  we  had  in  the  Crescent.  By 
that  time  I'd  got  the  job  of  running  the  local  paper. 
I  met  the  proprietor  at  the  Conservative  Club  here 
where  I  played  chess  with  him,  and  the  editor  died  so 
he  gave  it  to  me.  It's  a  weekly  paper,  so  it  gave  me 
time  to  look  after  Anne  too." 

"  I  suppose  you  sent  her  back  to  school,  poor 
child?" 

"  No,  she  wouldn't  go,"  explained  her  guardian 
serenely.  "  And  from  what  I  saw  of  the  school  while 
I  was  waiting  for  her  I  couldn't  blame  her.  Anyway 
I  wasn't  sure  whether  there'd  be  any  money  for  school 
or  anything  else  until  that  matter  of  three  thousand 


14  ANNE 

pounds  was  settled.  Fortunately  the  Colonel  kept 
plenty  of  loose  cash  on  him  to  play  with,  and  he'd 
had  a  run  of  luck.  Altogether  there  was  sixty  pounds, 
and  some  odd  shillings  in  his  purse,  so  Anne  has  been 
living  on  that  until  I  could  settle  her  affairs.  My 
screw  is  only  thirty-five  bob  a  week,  so  I've  had  to 
be  careful." 

"  Do  you  mean  she  hasn't  any  relations  of  her 
own  ?  " 

"  The  Colonel  never  mentioned  any.  All  Anne 
knows  is  that  she  was  born  in  India,  and  that  her 
mother  died  when  she  was  about  ten.  The  lady  who 
kept  the  school  knew  nothing  except  that  Colonel 
O'Shaughnessy  sent  her  there,  and  left  her  there  while 
he  was  travelling  abroad.  I  fancy  if  there  had  been 
any  relations  or  old  friends  Mr.  Trevor  wouldn't  have 
been  the  only  name  mentioned  in  what  the  Colonel 
imagined  to  be  his  will.  So,  of  course,  I've  felt 
anxious  about  her  future." 

The  odd  broad  young  brow  was  puckered  into  a 
frown  of  perplexity. 

"  So  far  it  has  been  all  plain  sailing.  She's  a 
thoroughly  simple,  straightforward,  nice  kid,  not 
spoilt  and  no  nonsense  about  her,  and  we've  managed. 
I've  gone  on  with  her  education  as  best  I  could.  I'm 
teaching  her  Latin  and  Greek  on  a  plan  of  my  own. 
I  don't  know  whether  it  is  a  great  success,  p'raps  it's 
not  a  sound  plan,  and  p'raps  I'm  not  a  good  teacher. 
Sometimes  when  she  makes  worse  howlers  than 
usual  I  get  disheartened.  And  there  is  an  old  French 
character  we  picked  up  on  the  harbour,  who's  taken 
rather  a  fancy  to  her ;  he's  teaching  her  French. 
She's  gone  to  him  for  a  lesson  this  afternoon.  She 
likes  old  Monsieur  Bourget,  and  seems  to  be  getting 


ANNE  15 

on  all  right  with  French.  Mrs.  Mugford,  our  landlady, 
the  party  who  let  you  in,  she  looks  after  her  too, 
washes  her  hair  for  her  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
Between  us  we've  done  our  best,  but  nobody  knows 
better  than  I  do  that  it  isn't  an  ideal  arrangement 
for  a  girl  of  her  age." 

"  Now  that  the  matter  of  the  child's  three  thousand 
pounds  is  finally  settled  I  suppose  she  can  be  sent  to 
school  ?  " 

"  I'll  talk  to  her  about  it.  It  is  uncommonly 
decent  of  you." 

Gilbert  quickly  and  impatiently  deprecated  any 
expressions  of  gratitude. 

"  My  grandfather  may  have  robbed  her  father  but 
I  don't  intend  to  rob  the  child.  If  I  inherit  my  grand- 
father's estate  I  inherit  his  responsibilities,  and  this 
child  seems  to  have  been  one  of  his  responsibilities." 

"  Not  legally :  you'll  find  the  will  isn't  worth  the 
paper  it  is  written  on." 

"  I'd  rather  like  to  see  it.  At  any  rate  I  seem  to 
be  the  nearest  equivalent  to  a  legal  trustee  that  she 
has,  and  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  act,  if  you  agree. 
My  sister  will  help  us  find  a  school." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  wait  till  you've  seen  her  ?  " 
suggested  John  Halliday. 

"  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Nothing  in  theory,  everything 
in  practice.  Honestly,  my  mind  is  divided.  I  want 
what's  best  for  Anne.  If  you've  got  a  sister  you're  in 
a  better  position  than  I  am,  because  I've  no  women- 
folk to  turn  to.  ...  Only  I've  got  fond  of  her.  I 
understand  her,  and  you  might  take  a  dislike  to  her 
and  she  wouldn't  be  happy." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival 


16  ANNE 

of  Mrs.  Mugford  who  had  added  a  crocheted  white 
cap  to  her  attire.  She  brought  in  further  instalments 
of  a  meal,  a  blue  jug,  a  white  sugar  basin,  and  a 
green  plush  tea-cosy  embellished  with  yellow  ribbons. 

"  She's  due  in  to  tea  now  anyway,"  said  John 
Halliday,  seizing  his  chance  of  gaining  time.  "  I'll 
get  that  will  if  you'd  like  to  look  at  it.  Where's  Miss 
Anne,  Mrs.  Mugford  ?  " 

"  She's  away  oot  and  has  been  since  her  dinner. 
She  may  be  away  havin'  her  lesson  in  French  like 
the  good  little  lassie  she  is,  or  she  may  be  muckin' 
aboot  they  boats  in  the  harbour  like  I've  said  I 
wouldn't  have  her  doing  ;  only  I  might  as  well  speak 
to  the  waves  on  the  shore." 

Without  waiting  to  hear  this  synopsis  of  the  un- 
certainty of  his  charge's  occupations  John  Halliday 
went  upstairs  to  fetch  the  will.  Mrs.  Mugford  placed 
the  tea-cosy  where  it  could  not  fail  to  catch  the 
stranger's  eyes  broadside  on  and  display  its  utmost 
glories,  and  returned  downstairs  to  fetch  the  teapot. 

Gilbert  went  to  the  bow- window  and  looked  up  and 
down  the  curve  of  the  street.  The  inhabitants  of 
Lennox  Terrace  were  all  indoors  having  tea.  There 
was  nobody  in  sight  but  a  baker  delivering  bread  at 
the  door  of  a  house  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road, 
and  a  schoolgirl  coming  slowly  down  the  hill.  As  she 
passed  the  baker's  handcart  her  demure  behaviour 
changed.  She  gave  an  alert  glance  round  her  like  a 
bird  before  pecking  at  a  worm,  seized  two  loaves  out 
of  the  open  basket  on  the  pavement,  and  darted  off 
down  the  hill  with  one  under  each  arm.  The  baker 
saw  her  and  started  in  pursuit.  She  had  about 
twenty  yards'  start  and  she  ran  like  a  young  hare. 
Her  fair  hair  streamed  in  the  wind  behind  her,  and 


ANNE  17 

her  long,  straight,  thin  black  legs  carried  her  down 
the  hill  with  a  swift  ease  and  grace  that  made  Gilbert 
hope  she  would  escape  with  her  ill-gotten  bread.  He 
hoped  it  aesthetically ;  because  she  ran  so  well  and 
the  baker  ran  heavily  and  clumsily  ;  morally  because 
her  action  had  dramatically  suggested  a  tragedy  of 
poverty  and  want,  with  a  little,  shabby,  pathetic 
heroine  ;  mentally  because  he  did  not  want  to  see 
the  baker  catch  her.  The  natural  denouement  of  that 
end  to  the  drama  would  be  that  the  child  would  be 
frightened  and  pitiful,  the  baker  rough  and  revenge- 
ful, and  he,  Gilbert,  was  just  too  far  from  the  scene 
to  interfere  in  time  on  the  culprit's  behalf,  though  he 
was  prepared  to  rush  out  of  the  house  if  she  needed 
physical  protection  from  the  wrathful  baker,  who 
was  undoubtedly  gaining  on  her ;  for  all  his  clumsi- 
ness his  legs  were  longer.  As  the  distance  between 
pursuer  and  pursued  lessened  and  the  maiden  seemed 
in  imminent  danger  of  being  caught  up,  she  stopped 
and  threw  both  loaves  over  the  railings  into  one  of 
the  little  gardens.  Then  she  darted,  or  danced,  across 
the  road.  The  baker,  instead  of  darting  after  her, 
paused,  went  into  the  garden  and  recovered  his 
loaves  and  his  breath,  merely  shaking  his  fist  at  the 
culprit  who  calmly  turned  up  the  hill  again,  stopping 
on  her  way  to  pull  up  one  of  her  stockings  and  adjust 
the  ribbon  on  her  hair. 

"  I'll  tell  yer  father  of  you  one  of  these  days," 
shouted  the  baker,  "  you  see  if  I  don't ! " 

Gilbert  heard  through  the  silence  of  the  afternoon. 

"  You  can't,"  was  the  unperturbed  reply,  shouted 
back  triumphantly  by  a  damsel  less  distressed  than 
Gilbert  had  imagined  anyone  could  possibly  be. 
"  You  can't !  He's  dead  !  " 


18  ANNE 

"  I'm  hanged  if  I  don't  believe  that's  my  blessed 
orphan  !  "  exclaimed  Gilbert  to  himself. 

And,  blessed  or  unblessed,  it  was.  Because  she 
pushed  open  the  gate  and  ran  up  the  steps. 


CHAPTER   H 

FIVE  minutes  afterwards,  Anne,  having  presumably 
followed  the  strenuously  whispered  advice  to  wash 
her  hands  and  brush  her  hair  that  had  greeted  her 
arrival,  was  formally  introduced  by  John  Halliday. 

Gilbert  in  a  quick  critical  glance  decided  that  she 
was  not  pretty.  Her  long  thick  hair  was  so  fair  that 
it  lacked  colour  ;  her  lips  were  refined  and  sensitive 
but  her  mouth  was  one  size  too  large  for  her  very 
small  pale  face  :  then  she  looked  up  with  the  largest, 
bluest  eyes  he  had  ever  seen.  They  were  also  much 
too  large  for  her  eager  little  face,  they  were  deep-set, 
very  wide  apart,  and  they  opened  very  wide  indeed. 
They  were  like  two  blue  lamps,  Gilbert  decided. 
When  she  smiled  her  lips  parted  and  disclosed  pretty 
white  teeth.  Her  paleness,  her  fairness,  and  her 
extreme  slenderness  gave  her  the  appearance  of 
great  delicacy,  and  she  looked  much  younger  than 
her  years  in  a  plain,  shabby,  black  serge  dress  with  a 
string  of  green  beads  round  her  neck.  All  arms  and 
legs  and  eyes,  he  mentally  summed  her  up. 

"  I  watched  you  coming  down  the  street,"  he  said. 
He  hadn't  meant  to  refer  to  her  escapade  with  the 
baker,  but  the  words  slipped  out  and  he  regretted 
them  until  he  saw  that  they  evoked  neither  em- 
barrassment nor  self-consciousness. 

"  Did  you  ?  "  she  said.    "  I  didn't  see  you." 

19 


20  ANNE 

'*  I  was  at  the  window,  wondering  whether  I 
should  have  to  rush  out  and  rescue  you." 

**  I  like  teasing  that  man,  he's  so  stupid.  I  do  it 
every  afternoon,"  explained  Anne  with  a  dignity 
that  Gilbert  felt  to  be  as  illogical  as  it  was  baffling. 
"  Do  you  like  sugar  in  your  tea  ?  ' 

"  What  man  is  this  ?  "  enquired  John. 

"  Only  the  baker,"  said  Anne.  "  Not  our 
baker." 

Then,  that  subject  disposed  of,  she  passed  each 
man  his  cup  of  tea. 

Having  done  her  duty  as  a  hostess  she  relapsed 
into  silence.  She  was  either  shy  or  hungry  or  both  ; 
neither  John  nor  Gilbert  could  get  out  of  her  more 
than  "  yes  "  or  "  no  "  as  she  steadily  ate  bread  and 
butter  with  brown  sugar  on  it,  while  John  Halliday 
entertained  his  guest  with  the  editorial  adventures 
of  the  St.  Hilda's  Bay  Gazette. 

It  seemed  that  the  proprietor  was  a  Conservative 
and  the  principal  advertisers  Radicals,  which  made 
the  editor's  task  of  writing  all  the  leading  articles 
a  matter  that  demanded  political  tact  rather  than 
political  insight. 

"  There's  no  pleasing  them  all,"  explained  John 
Halliday,  "  so  the  only  safe  thing  is  to  rile  them  all. 
Then  when  old  Jordan  (he's  the  proprietor)  comes 
down  to  the  office  in  a  rage,  wanting  to  sack  me  for 
saying  the  Home  Secretary  hasn't  the  guts  of  a 
guinea-pig,  I  can  show  him  a  furious  letter  from 
Job  Wellings,  the  big  draper,  threatening  to  with- 
draw his  full-page  advertisement  because  the  same 
article  says  the  Radical  opposition  is  spoon-fed  on 
cocoa  which  gets  into  their  heads.  I'm  in  a  fairly 
strong  position  really,  because  since  I  took  on  the 


ANNE  21 

rag  its  circulation  has  increased.  It  is  the  finest  toy 
in  the  world,  you  know — a  newspaper.  I've  taught 
Anne  to  correct  proofs,  and  she  helps  me  no  end. 
We've  taken  to  putting  in  poetry — original  verses 
if  I  can  get  any  that  aren't  too  putridly  rotten, 
otherwise  anything  that  Anne  likes  out  of  my  books 
as  long  as  it  is  short :  and  reviews  of  books  too.  I 
let  Anne  try  her  hand  at  criticism ;  gave  her  two 
books  to  read,  and  told  her  to  write  her  opinion  of 
them.  However,  she  wrote  of  one,  '  This  seems  to  be 
a  very  silly  book,'  and  of  the  other,  '  so  does  this.' 
So,  as  the  Gazette  is  not  The  Times  Literary  Supple- 
ment, I've  had  to  take  her  off  reviewing  and  give 
her  scissors  and  paste  instead." 

"  Any  libel  actions  ?  " 

"  No.  I  studied  the  libel  law  and  discovered  how 
to  say  what  I  like  in  perfect  safety.  Also,  if  you 
keep  off  local  folk  and  stick  to  abusing  the  big  guns 
in  London,  you  can  count  upon  being  immune.  But 
as  I  was  saying  to  the  boss  yesterday,  if  only  one 
could  get  a  Cabinet  Minister  to  bring  a  libel  action 
against  us  the  fortunes  of  the  Gazette  would  be 
made.  Why  it  would  circulate  all  over  Yorkshire 
after  an  advertisement  like  that !  "  said  the  editor 
wistfully. 

After  tea  Gilbert  returned  to  his  hotel  to  write  to 
his  sister  : 

"  MY  DEAR  FRANCESCA, 

The  news  I  have  for  you  is  rather  a  surprise 
to  me.  Crane  Hall  will,  I  fear,  prove  an  un- 
remunerative  responsibility  unless  it  lets,  as  no 
doubt  it  will  do,  as  there  is  good  shooting  with  it. 
Our  grandfather  seems  to  have  been  even  a  less 


22  ANNE 

desirable  relation  than  we  considered  him  before. 
It  was  a  disappointment  to  find  the  Estate  in  a 
bad  way  financially.  I  had  hoped  it  would  enable 
me  to  repay  part  of  your  generosity  with  some- 
thing more  tangible  than  gratitude.  And  as  far 
as  I  have  been  able  to  go  into  the  figures,  I  stand 
to  get  remarkably  little  out  of  the  place.  But  I 
have  inherited  another  responsibility  of  our  grand- 
father's, and  I  am  relying  upon  your  mercy  and 
counting  upon  your  help  and  moral  support.  A 
certain  Colonel  O'Shaughnessy,  whom  my  grand- 
father appears  to  have  treated  pretty  badly 
(gambled  with  him  and  robbed  him  of  consider- 
able sums  of  money),  made  a  will  making  grand- 
father his  daughter's  guardian.  The  child,  a  girl 
of  fifteen,  is  stranded  here  with  nobody  in  the 
world  to  look  after  her  but  a  pleasant  young  man 
of  about  twenty-three  years  old,  an  impecunious 
journalist  with  Bohemian  tastes  and  ways.  I  feel 
morally,  though  not  legally,  bound  to  accept  the 
charge  which  devolves  on  me.  I  say  '  not  legally  ' 
because  the  will  which  I  have  just  read  through 
is  not  witnessed  and  would  not  stand  in  the  English 
courts,  though  according  to  Scots  law  it  would 
hold  good.  Therefore,  I  am  going  to  suggest  to 
the  child's  present  guardian  that  we  take  the  will 
as  a  valid  document,  and  that  we  put  the  money, 
about  three  thousand  pounds,  into  trust,  with  him 
and  myself  as  the  child's  legal  trustees,  her 
guardians  until  she  is  of  age,  and  the  trustees  of 
her  property  afterwards.  Then  I  shall  appeal  to 
you  to  come  to  the  rescue  and  find  a  school  for  my 
protegee.  At  present  I  feel  like  a  hen  who  is 
suddenly  required  to  take  charge  of  a  young  sea- 


ANNE  23 

gull.  She  is  at  present  in  fifth-rate  lodgings,  with 
this  young  John  Halliday,  chaperoned  by  a 
Dickens'  caricature  of  a  landlady. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

GILBERT." 

That  evening  he  had  another  interview  with  John 
Halliday  and  laid  the  idea  before  him. 

"  Of  course,"  Gilbert  concluded,  "  if  you  have  a 
better  plan  in  your  own  mind  I  don't  want  to  inter- 
fere." 

"  I  haven't,"  said  John,  "  I  haven't  any  plans.  I 
have  been  infernally  puzzled  to  know  what  to  do  for 
the  best.  It  is  such  a  nuisance  Anne  being  a  girl  and 
at  such  an  awkward  age.  If  she'd  been  ten  years 
younger  I  could  have  adopted  her,  or  ten  years  older 
she'd  have  been  married  probably.  As  it  is  she's  a 
problem.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  her  at  all. 
She  has  no  real  literary  gifts  that  I  can  discover,  or 
if  she  has  they're  undeveloped,  and  it's  all  I've 
got  to  give  her — a  training  in  how  not  to  write 
English." 

"  Shall  we  consult  Anne  before  we  settle  her  affairs 
and  tie  up  her  money  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  John  decidedly,  "  we  won't.  It  wouldn't 
be  fair  for  one  thing,  kids  of  fifteen  don't  know  what's 
good  for  them.  Another  thing  is  that  if  we  put  it 
into  her  head  that  it  is  undecided,  and  something  for 
her  to  have  views  about,  she'll  probably  out  with 
very  clear  ones  that  would  be  all  wrong.  While  if 
we  face  her  with  a  cut-and-dried  plan  all  settled  and 
done  with,  and  not  to  be  argued  about,  she'll  be 
most  likely  to  accept  it  like  a  Briton  and  be  as  good 
as  gold." 


24  ANNE 

The  two  young  men  were  walking  up  and  down 
the  cliff  after  dinner  at  the  White  Hart.  Anne,  who 
had  dined  with  them  in  a  clean  white  muslin  frock 
which  she  had  outgrown,  and  in  which  she  looked 
very  cold,  had  been  taken  home  to  bed  at  half-past 
nine.  John  had  been  most  anxious  for  his  charge  to 
make  a  good  impression  at  dinner.  Anne's  idea  of 
good  behaviour  was  apparently  to-  keep  silent. 
Gilbert  had  tried  to  draw  her  out  by  asking  : 

"  Did  your  father  ever  talk  to  you  about  my  grand- 
father ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Anne,  "  lots  of  times,  but  I  didn't 
listen  much." 

"  You  didn't  listen  ?  "  Her  candid  undutifulness 
seemed  to  require  explanation. 

"  No.  It  was  all  about  playing  cards,  and  I  didn't 
believe  it,  so  it  didn't  interest  me." 

Gilbert  glanced  quickly  at  John,  but  he  was  watch- 
ing Anne. 

"  What  didn't  you  believe  ?  " 

"  What  Daddy  told  me,"  said  Anne  calmly,  between 
spoonfuls  of  caramel  pudding.  "  Daddy  said  you 
could  find  a  way  of  playing  in  which  you  couldn't 
lose,  so  that  you  could  go  on  and  win  as  much  money 
as  you  liked.  It  couldn't  be  true  you  know,  or  every- 
one would  do  it.  Or  if  it  were  true  for  somebody  it 
would  be  no  use,  because  nobody  would  be  silly 
enough  to  play  with  anybody  if  they  knew  he'd  got 
a  dodge  by  which  he  couldn't  lose." 

"  They  mightn't  know ;  he  might  leave  them  to 
find  out." 

**  Then  that  would  be  cheating,"  said  Anne 
severely,  "  and  wouldn't  be  fair." 

She  finished  her  pudding,  and  remarked  : 


ANNE  25 

"  Poor  Daddy  was  very  ill,  and  when  people  are 
ill  they  very  often  get  fancies,  the  doctor  said. 
Daddy  fancied  that  he'd  won  a  lot  of  money,  but 
he  hadn't,  of  course,  because  he  hadn't  got  it. 
So  I  usen't  to  take  any  notice  and  didn't  listen 
much." 

If  Anne's  attitude  were  unfilial  her  tone  was  kindly 
and  tolerant :  too  detached  to  be  accurately  described 
as  maternal,  it  nevertheless  approached  motherliness ; 
perhaps  avuncular  was  near  the  mark :  she  might  have 
been  a  broad-minded  aunt  discussing  a  scapegrace 
nephew. 

The  next  day  Gilbert  received  a  telegram  from  his 
sister  : 

"  Bring  your  sea-gull  to  me  as  soon  as  possible. 

FRANCES  CA." 

Gilbert  left  John  Halliday  to  unfold  the  situation 
to  Anne  and  to  explain  to  her  the  disposition  of  her 
future  and  her  property.  The  objection  Anne  raised 
was  one  they  had  not  foreseen  ;  it  concerned  the 
paper,  the  St.  Hilda's  Bay  Gazette :  she  wished  to 
know  who  would  help  the  editor  with  that  publication 
if  she  were  removed  by  her  trustees,  and  implied  that 
a  satisfactory  answer  to  her  question  would  be  un- 
welcome. 

"  The  kid  thinks  she's  invaluable,"  said  John  rue- 
fully, "  and  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  undeceive  her.  I 
like  her  spirit — if  she  were  offered  the  editorship  of 
The  Times  to-morrow  she'd  take  it.  I  told  her  that 
there  was  no  future  in  our  branch  of  journalism,  that 
I  should  get  someone  else  to  help  me,  and  that  pretty 
soon  I  should  go  back  to  London,  which  is  quite  true. 


26  ANNE 

I  told  her  that  journalism  is  a  dog's  life  for  a  girl,  and 
that  my  real  job  is  writing  plays.  She's  promised  to 
act  in  them  !  Says  if  she  can't  be  an  editor  she 
thinks  she'll  be  an  actress.  It  seems  to  me  we're 
going  to  have  our  work  cut  out  as  Anne's  trustees, 
heading  her  off  awful  ideas."  He  lit  the  cigarette 
Gilbert  offered  him,  and  said  :  "I  shall  miss  her  like 
hell." 

Gilbert  was  anxious  to  get  away  from  Yorkshire. 
He  intended  to  place  Anne  with  Francesca  and  leave 
the  choice  of  a  school  to  her.  It  was  arranged  that 
he  should  start  as  soon  as  possible,  leave  the  deed  to 
be  drawn  up  by  the  solicitors  in  York  whom  John 
had  already  consulted,  and  take  Anne  straight  on  to 
Mrs.  Waring  in  Gloucestershire.  It  was  difficult  to 
tell  whether  Anne  was  reconciled  to  her  ~fate  or  not ; 
she  was  very  docile,  made  no  difficulties,  and  took  a 
keenly  intelligent  interest  in  everything  that  was 
explained  to  her. 

"  There  is  no  nonsense  about  Anne,"  Gilbert  was 
assured  when  he  asked  whether  she  would  be  un- 
happy at  being  cast  among  strangers.  And  when  a 
young  man  says  of  a  feminine  specimen  of  the  human 
race  that  there  is  no  nonsense  about  her  he  means 
that  she  is  devoid  of  emotions,  and  that,  from  the 
young  British  male  with  his  abhorrence  for  tears 
and  scenes,  is  praise.  Gilbert  accepted  it  as  high 
praise. 

However,  when  everything  was  settled,  Anne  dis- 
concerted John  Halliday  by  reopening  the  subject 
and  beginning  again  from  the  starting-post. 

"  I've  been  thinking,"  said  Anne  the  evening 
before  she  was  to  leave  St.  Hilda's  Bay,  "  and  I'd 
rather  stay  here  with  you." 


4  N  N  E  27 

"  And  I'd  rather  have  you,  old  lady,  only  it  can't 
be  done.  There's  your  father's  will  to  be  considered, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  But  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  like  where  I'm 
going  to."  Her  voice  was  firm,  but  there  was  a  quiver 
on  her  lip  that  wrenched  John's  heart. 

"  If  you  don't  like  it,  you  send  a  wire  to  me  and  I'll 
fetch  you  away  in  a  jiffy." 

"  And  bring  me  back  here  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  of  being  here  myself,"  he  hedged  ; 
"  besides  there's  no  blinking  facts,  you've  jolly  well 
got  to  go  to  school  and  be  educated." 

Anne  considered  and  then  said  slowly,  with  a 
sigh: 

"  Very  well ;  but  the  moment  I'm  educated  I  shall 
come  back  to  you." 

"  Righto,"  said  John,  "  and  whether  I'm  editing 
The  Times  or  the  Athenceum  you'll  be  much  more  use 
as  a  sub-editor  if  you  know  a  thing  or  two." 

Anne's  alacrity  in  accepting  his  promise  to  write 
to  her  as  an  adequate  compensation  for  whatever 
distance  of  time  and  space  it  was  proposed  to  place 
between  them,  was  regarded  by  both  young  men  as  a 
proof  of  her  possession  of  a  creditable,  philosophic 
spirit,  whereas  it  was  but  a  symptom  of  her  youth 
and  inexperience  :  for  it  seemed  that  Anne  had  never 
received  a  letter  in  her  life.  Colonel  O'Shaughnessy, 
when  compelled  to  communicate  with  or  about  his 
daughter,  had  resorted  to  telegrams. 

Old  Monsieur  Bourget  also  promised  to  write  to 
Anne  ;  but  Anne,  though  politely  grateful,  seemed 
to  reserve  an  opinion  whether  a  French  letter  came 
into  the  category  of  letters  unalloyed.  This  was  at 
the  station  where  Monsieur  Bourget  came  to  see 


28  ANNE 

them  off.  He  treated  Anne  with  as  much  deference 
as  if  she  were  middle-aged  and  a  duchess  :  John 
treated  her  as  if  she  were  ten  years  old  and  a  little 
boy.  He  just  patted  her  on  the  shoulder  and  pushed 
her  into  the  train. 

John  Halliday  went  on  to  the  editorial  office  of  his 
Gazette  with  a  very  heavy  heart.  He  cut  and  pasted 
extracts  from  the  London  papers  quite  abstractedly  ; 
and  when  Mr.  Jordan,  the  proprietor  of  the  Gazette, 
came  in  to  mention  that  a  local  celebrity,  whom  he 
had  just  met  on  the  quay,  had  complained  bitterly 
that  a  letter  he  had  deigned  to  write  to  the  editor, 
the  editor  had  not  deigned  to  insert,  the  editor's  lack 
of  interest  startled  the  proprietor  into  genial  sarcasm. 

"  What's  up  ?  Are  you  thinking  out  one  of  your 
schemes  for  getting  me  in  the  bankruptcy  court  and 
yourself  in  the  dock  with  a  really  high-class  libel 
action,  eh  ?  " 

John  shook  his  head. 

"  I  was  telling  you  that  old  man  Boiling  is  in  a 
fine  taking  because  you  don't  print  his  letters." 

"  If  I  put  in  all  the  letters  every  lugubrious  old 
buster  in  the  Bay  chose  to  write  about  the  Urban 
District  Council  who  do  you  think  would  read  the 
Gazette  ?  An  editor's  job  is  to  know  what  to  leave 
out  of  a  paper." 

"  Well,  when  you've  got  me  broke  without  even 
the  fun  of  a  libel  action,  don't  blame  me  because 
you've  lost  your  job — offending  all  the  oldest  sub- 
scribers this  way." 

"  A  subscriber's  job  is  to  read  the  paper  not  to 
write  it.  But  if  you  know  of  another  man  to  take 
my  place,  I  wish  you'd  send  him  along  and  I'll  show 
him  the  local  ropes." 


ANNE  29 

"  Don't  be  a  sillier  ass  than  you  can  help.  I'm 
not  finding  fault  with  the  way  you  do  your  work.  It 
is  the  proprietor's  job  to  turn  up  at  the  office,  and 
have  a  chat  to  see  how  big  the  editor's  head  may  be 
getting." 

"  I  know — you're  awfully  decent  to  me,  and  I'm 
very  grateful,"  said  John  ;  "  but  all  the  same,  I'm 
thinking  of  resigning  and  going  to  London,  and  I'm 
speaking  about  it  at  once  to  give  you  plenty  of  time 
to  find  another  man." 

Mr.  Jordan  sat  down  heavily  on  the  nearest 
chair  and  laid  his  hat  and  stick  on  the  desk  with 
a  thump. 

"  Man  be  damned,  you  young  rascal !  Aren't  I 
telling  you  I  don't  want  a  man  ?  I'm  quite  content 
with  the  silly  owl  of  a  boy  that  I've  got  in  your  own 
shoes." 

John  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"  Thanks  awfully,  sir.  But  all  the  same,  I  do 
want  to  go  back  to  London." 

Josiah  Jordan  frowned,  and  growled  some  impreca- 
tion into  his  own  short  beard.  Then  he  held  up  a 
gnarled  rheumatic  forefinger  and  delivered  an  oration 
on  the  folly  of  young  men  in  general,  and  the  peculiar 
imbecility  of  the  young  man  who  gives  up  a  certain 
bird  in  the  hand  for  an  uncertain  bird  in  a  probably 
unpleasantly  prickly  bush. 

"  I've  no  patience  with  this  craze  of  going  to 
London.  Anyone  would  think  that  all  the  brains 
and  sense  of  the  kingdom  were  wanted  there,  which 
they  are  not ;  there's  plenty  there,  such  as  it  is,  and  it's 
brains  and  sense  as  are  wanted  in  the  counties. 
That's  what's  the  matter  with  the  world — everyone 
flying  into  the  cities,  treading  on  each  other's  toes 


30  ANNE 

and  elbowing  each  other's  breath  out  of  their  lungs. 
It  don't  make  for  pleasantness  nor  manners  nor 
results.  What  would  you  think  of  a  farmer  as  put 
all  his  manure  in  one  corner  of  his  field  ?  You'd  say 
he'd  get  a  damned  poor  harvest.  Besides  you're  not 
the  sort  to  make  your  way  in  a  crowd.  You  stay 
here  and  work  up  your  own  job  in  your  own  way.  It 
will  be  good  for  you  and  good  for  the  district.  I'll 
keep  you  out  of  mischief  here  and  back  you  up. 
Who's  going  to  do  that  for  you  in  London  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  John,  "  I  dare  say  you're 
right.  But  I  feel  I've  got  to  go.  There  are  private 
reasons  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  shrewdly. 

"  Not  more  than  one,  I  trust  ?  You  take  an  old 
man's  advice  and  have  only  one  private  reason  at  a 
time ;  and  remember  that  you  can't  tell  if  she's  the 
right  sort  by  looking  at  her." 

John  returned  to  Lennox  Terrace  to  write  a 
leading  article  for  his  Gazette  on  fish  manure,  a 
subject  upon  which  his  knowledge  was  of  a  slightness 
that  called  for  care  and  ingenuity  in  the  choice  and 
use  of  five  hundred  words.  When  Mrs.  Mugford 
brought  him  his  tea  she  found  him  staring  dismally 
at  a  blank  sheet  of  paper.  She  laid  out  the  tray  with 
sympathetic  care  not  to  make  a  noise — the  care  that 
in  avoiding  one  healthy,  outspoken  noise  that  no- 
body minds  produces  half  a  dozen  apologetic, 
exasperating  minor  noises  that  only  the  most  equable 
nerves  can  stand  with  cheerfulness. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  bring  another  cup  and  sit 
down  and  pour  the  stuff  out  for  me,"  said  John 
gloomily. 

Mrs.    Mugford's    depression   became   tinged    with 


ANNE  31 

satisfaction :  she  became  conspicuously  more  de- 
pressed by  way  of  politeness.  She  sat  down  nervously 
at  the  very  edge  of  a  chair,  not  because  it  lacked  a 
castor  but  because  she  possessed  a  firm  code  of  good 
manners,  and  was  disconcerted  when  her  host  and 
lodger  suggested  she  should  remove  herself  to  a  safer 
seat. 

"  You'll  be  missing  Miss  Anne,"  she  said,  introduc- 
ing the  bill  before  the  house  with  no  unnecessary 
preamble. 

"  What's  worrying  me,"  said  John,  absent- 
mindedly  punching  holes  in  a  thick  slice  of  bread  and 
butter  with  the  end  of  his  penholder,  "  is  whether 
I've  done  the  right  thing  in  letting  these  people  take 
her  ?  What  do  I  know  about  them  ?  I've  made 
what  enquiries  I  can  and  they  seem  to  be  all  right, 
but  will  they  look  after  her  properly  ?  " 

"  You've  done  the  best  as  you  could,  sir,"  said 
Mrs.  Mugford  consolingly. 

"  But  she's  only  a  kid — if  she  isn't  happy  or  any- 
thing. .  .  .  After  all  while  she  was  here  I  did  know  she 
was  all  right  as  far  as  things  went.  Upon  my  word 
I  wish  I'd  insisted  upon  keeping  her  here  under  my 
own  eye,  and  looking  after  her  myself." 

"  You  was  goodness  itself,  sir,  and  wherever  Miss 
Anne  goes  she'll  not  meet  a  kinder  young  gentleman. 
I've  often  thought  to  myself  as  the  Almighty  missed 
making  a  good  mother  when  He  made  you  a  gentleman 
instead  of  a  lady.  But  if  you  will  forgive  the  freedom, 
if  Miss  Anne's  own  mother  had  been  alive  to-day 
she'd  say  that  what  young  ladies  of  her  age  want  to 
look  after  them  is  another  lady,  and  no  amount  of 
young  gentlemen  can  come  to  quite  the  same  thing, 
sir,  no  amount  whatever."  She  wound  up  firmly  as 


32  ANNE 

if  she  suspected  John  of  harbouring  a  theory  that  the 
multiplication  of  unsuitable  guardians  might,  in 
time,  equal  the  efficacy  of  one  of  the  right  species. 

"  I  suppose  there's  something  in  that,"  conceded 
John  reluctantly,  "  but  she  is  not  a  baby.  I'm  sure 
you  and  I  together  managed  her  beautifully." 

"  I'm  sure  I  did  my  best,  sir."  Mrs.  Mugford's 
pale  brown  face  became  faintly  pink  with  gratifica- 
tion. "  But  what  with  the  house,  and  the  stairs,  and 
the  shopping,  and  prices  what  they  are,  and  the 
rates  always  on  my  mind,  I  couldn't  do  all  as  I'd 
have  liked  to,  nor  what  a  young  lady  like  Miss  Anne 
had  a  call  to  have  done.  Now  if  I'd  'a  had  time  of 
a  afternoon  to  put  on  my  bonnet  and  black  gloves 
and  take  Miss  Anne  out  for  a  nice  walk  along  the 
Crescent,  that  would  have  been  all  very  nice  and 
proper.  But  with  me  never  having  me  apron  off  as 
it  were,  there  was  Miss  Anne  the  Lord  knows  where 
with  the  Lord  knows  who,  down  on  the  harbour  as 
like  as  not,  with  them  riff-raff  boys,  though  time 
after  time  I've  said  as  no  little  lady  as  was  a  little 
lady  would  do  so.  '  You  go  to  blazes,  Mrs.  Mugford,' 
she'd  say  quite  pleasant  like,  '  I  shall  do  what  I 
damn  well  like.' ' 

John  looked  rather  startled. 

"  Oh,  she  could  be  a  naughty  little  gell,  bless  her," 
said  Mrs.  Mugford  placidly,  with  affection  on  every 
line  of  her  countenance,  "  a  very  naughty  little 
gell." 

"  Bless  me,  I  hope  she  won't  use  that  language  to 
Mrs.  Waring  !  They'll  never  understand  it." 

"  All  the  better  for  Miss  Anne  if  understand  it  they 
don't."  Mrs.  Mugford  sipped  her  tea  with  a  sceptical 
expression  in  her  eyes  that  betrayed  her  conviction 


ANNE  33 

that  Miss  Anne's  chances  of  not  having  such  language 
understood  were  both  few  and  slender. 

"  I  mean  if  she  talks  like  that  they'll  never  under- 
stand what  a  dear,  good  little  kid  she  really  is," 
explained  her  worried  trustee  and  guardian. 

"She  can  be  as  good  a  little  maid  as  ever 
stepped  when  she  likes,  and  it's  my  belief  as  she 
will  like." 

"  If  they  bully  her  and  make  her  unhappy  I'll  just 
have  her  back  that's  all."  He  laid  down  his  cup  and 
pushed  away  his  plate.  "  I  shall  go  back  to  London, 
you  know,  to  be  nearer  her  in  case." 

Mrs.  Mugford  clasped  her  hands  with  a  nervous, 
troubled  gesture. 

"  And  give  up  your  rooms,  sir  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  so.    I  shall  be  sorry  .  .  ." 

The  perfunctory  kind  words  died  on  his  lips  as  he 
saw  the  woman's  tragic  face. 

"  And  sorry  ain't  the  word  for  me,  sir.  Of  course, 
go  you  must  if  you  say  so." 

"  I  won't  go  till  you've  let  my  rooms,"  promised 
John  hastily,  realising  that  his  small  rent  and  board 
made  up  a  considerable  proportion  of  Mrs.  Mugford's 
inadequate  income. 

"  That's  your  kind  heart  and  your  innocence 
makes  you  promise  that,  sir,  and  I  couldn't  hold  you 
to  no  such  rashness.  Why  maybe  it  would  be  months 
before  I  found  a  regular  gentleman  like  yourself  to 
abide  here  in  the  winter,  and  no  trouble  and  a  kind 
heart.  That's  the  way  of  life,  sir,  if  you've  lodgings 
to  let.  Them  as  you'd  have  stay  has  to  go  away  and 
leave  you  empty,  and  them  as  wants  to  come,  like  as 
not  you'd  prefer  the  emptiness  if  you  hadn't  got  to 
live  by  them." 


34  ANNE 

It  was  characteristic  of  John  Halliday  that  he 
added  his  landlady's  trouble  to  his  own  burden  of 
uneasiness,  and  worried  more  over  the  possibility  of 
her  finding  another  lodger  to  take  his  place  than  over 
the  chances  of  finding  work  in  London  himself. 


CHAPTER   III 

GILBERT  did  his  best  to  amuse  Anne  on  their  journey, 
but  when  she  refused  the  food  he  offered  her  he 
could  think  of  no  other  diversion.  She  explained 
that  she  didn't  like  dinners  on  trains,  and  he  ascer- 
tained that  she  was  under  the  impression  that  the 
meals  were  cooked  by  the  engine-driver  in  the  loco- 
motive's boilers.  She  said  John  Halliday  had  told 
her  so,  and  when  Gilbert,  in  order  to  reassure  her, 
took  her  down  the  train  to  inspect  the  kitchen,  the 
heat  and  flavoured  steam  of  that  department  didn't 
reassure  her  at  all.  She  said  it  made  her  feel  sick. 
During  the  rest  of  the  journey  she  curled  up  in  the 
corner  of  the  carriage  and  stared  out  of  the  window 
in  silence,  looking  very  small  and  white  and  miserable. 
Gilbert  was  relieved  when  they  arrived  at  Whit- 
mead  junction,  their  journey's  end.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  a  certain  personal  and  possessive  sense 
of  responsibility  about  Anne,  and  he  wished  her  to 
make  a  good  impression  upon  Francesca  ;  he  was 
aware  that  his  charge  was  not  looking  her  best. 
After  the  journey  she  was  not  only  pale  but  dirty  ; 
the  black  lines  under  her  great  blue  eyes  were  fatigue, 
but  there  was  a  dusty  impression  of  black  smuts 
about  her  too.  He  would  like  to  have  had  her  face 
washed  and  her  hair  brushed  before  presenting  her 
to  his  sister,  but  as  there  was  nobody  at  the  little 

35 


36  ANNE 

station  but  the  stationmaster  and  his  son,  who  was 
both  porter  and  ticket-collector,  it  was  an  imprac- 
ticable aspiration. 

The  drive  from  the  station  was  up  and  down  a 
hilly  road  that  wound  between  fields  yellow-starred 
with  dandelions,  and  under  trees  green  with  every 
shade  of  green,  green  that  varied  as  greatly  as  the 
shape  of  the  young  leaves — golden  green,  silvery 
green,  emerald  green,  grey-green,  bronze-green,  and 
the  clear,  bright,  pure  green  that  beech  leaves  are 
for  those  magical  few  days  in  April  when  they  are 
just  out  of  their  brown  sheathes,  thin  and  crumpled 
with  the  light  shining  through  them,  when  they  are 
more  deliciously  green  than  anything  the  sun  shines 
on,  even  when  it  is  shining  on  an  English  spring  with 
the  grass  growing  straight  in  the  fields  and  hedgerows. 

They  drove  through  a  tiny  village  of  grey  stone, 
brown-roofed  cottages.  Each  little  garden  was  gay 
with  daffodils  and  wallflowers  and  early  tulips,  pink 
and  white,  yellow  and  red.  The  walls  and  roofs  were 
embossed  with  patches  of  soft  green  and  brown 
mosses,  delicate  white  fruit  blossom  clouded  the 
plum  and  cherry  trees,  and  the  pear  trees  were 
covered  with  knots  of  pale  grey  down  that  would  soon 
be  in  flower.  Beyond  the  village  Gilbert  pulled  up  the 
horse  to  avoid  an  excited  hen  in  the  road  with  a  brood 
of  irresponsible  little  yellow  chicks,  and  turned  in  at 
a  white  gate  between  lilac  bushes  and  a  laburnum 
tree. 

Anne  saw  a  two-storied,  gabled,  old  stone  house 
covered  with  wistaria.  A  tall  woman  with  smooth 
red  hair  was  waiting  for  them  on  the  doorstep,  a  thin 
woman  of  about  thirty-five,  dressed  in  a  well-cut 
tweed  coat  and  skirt. 


ANNE  37 

Francesca  Waring  saw  a  pale,  shabbily  dressed, 
tired  little  girl.  She  patted  her  shoulder,  then  shook 
hands  with  Gilbert,  remarked  that  their  train  was 
punctual,  and  in  fact  behaved  as  Gilbert  invariably 
trusted  her  to  behave,  with  absolute  serenity,  and  as 
if  her  only  male  relative  were  in  the  habit  of  bringing 
home  strange  orphans  for  adoption  once  a  week. 
Francesca,  in  all  Gilbert's  experience  of  her,  never 
showed  excitement  or  emotion  or  any  disturbing 
quality,  only  a  kindly  common  sense. 

Tea  was  ready  in  the  drawing-room,  a  long  low 
room  with  windows  leading  out  into  the  garden. 
Francesca  had  prepared  a  tea  to  welcome  her  fifteen- 
year-old  guest.  There  were  jam  sandwiches,  hot 
scones,  chocolate  cake,  and  gingerbread  on  a  round  oak 
tea-table  between  the  wood  fire  and  the  open  window. 
She  put  Anne  on  the  sofa  beside  her,  and  made  her 
eat  while  she  talked  to  Gilbert  about  their  journey, 
the  garden,  and  the  village  affairs.  Anne  was  tired 
and  a  little  bewildered.  The  white  bedroom  which 
had  been  prepared  for  her,  and  where  she  had  just 
washed  her  very  grubby  face  and  hands,  was  the 
most  luxurious  place  she  had  ever  had  allotted  to 
her.  The  difference  between  the  domesticities  of 
Mrs.  Mugford's  regime  at  Lennox  Terrace  and  this 
clean  house  with  its  white-panelled  walls,  its  shining 
brass  and  gay  chintzes,  its  silver  and  its  flowers  was 
startling.  The  tea-table  with  its  glistening  silver,  the 
china  with  its  cheerful,  grinning  green  dragons,  the 
array  of  cakes,  contrasted  with  the  heavy,  chipped, 
ill-assorted  tea-things  set  out  by  Mrs.  Mugford  and 
even  at  her  school,  seemed  to  belong  to  another  world  : 
a  very  pleasant  world  inhabited  by  well-dressed 
people  like  Gilbert  and  Francesca,  a  world  where 


38  ANNE 

chairs  and  sofas  lacked  not  castors,  and  were  clothed 
with  flowered  chintzes,  where  there  was  abundance 
of  hot  water  in  shining  brass  cans,  a  world  that  was 
fragrant  with  the  scent  of  flowers.  There  were  flowers 
all  over  the  drawing-room,  a  blue  bowl  of  primroses 
on  the  tea-table ;  tall  glasses  filled  with  tulips ;  while 
through  the  open  window  blew  a  sweet  warm  breath 
of  young  lilac,  wallflowers,  the  ineffable  smell  of  a 
garden  in  spring,  distilled  of  showers  and  freshly 
turned  earth,  of  sunshine,  young  leaves  and  buds,  of 
honey  in  the  opening  flowers. 

Francesca,  while  chatting  to  Gilbert,  watched 
Anne's  face  as  well  as  her  teacup  and  plate  ;  she 
noticed  her  quick,  appreciative,  shy  glances  round 
the  room,  noted  with  amusement  how  the  blue  eyes 
found  and  dwelt  on  her  most  cherished  treasures, 
the  Medici  coloured  prints,  the  collection  of  blue 
china  over  the  mantelpiece,  the  piece  of  Chinese  em- 
broidery on  the  piano  ;  these  things  absorbed  her 
attention  all  the  time  she  was  eating  cake.  Then 
from  the  flowers  she  looked  out  into  the  garden  ; 
the  beds  under  the  windows  were  ablaze  with  yellow 
and  brown  and  red  wallflowers.  The  long  border  by 
the  lawn,  the  pride  of  Francesca's  heart,  was  pierced 
by  hundreds  of  tender  green  spears,  the  pioneers  of 
the  marvellous  glories  to  come,  but  there  were  groups 
of  pink  tulips,  stalwart  orange  lilies,  and  blue  clouds 
of  forget-me-not,  dusty  brown  auridulas,  and  glowing 
masses  of  crimson  and  purple  anemones,  and  the 
sunshine  caught  the  purple  tips  of  the  growing  rose 
trees.  At  the  end  of  the  garden  an  old  laburnum  was 
in  full  bloom,  and  beyond  it  a  vista  of  green  open 
country  stretched  into  a  sapphire  blue  distance. 
The  eager,  wistful  expression  on  Anne's  face  as  she 


ANNE  39 

sat  and  looked  into  the  garden  touched  Francesca, 
but  Gilbert  was  saying  something  about  schools  and 
Francesca's  knowledge  of  such  institutions. 

"  There's  plenty  of  time  to  think  of  that,"  Fran- 
cesca said.  "  I'm  here  for  the  garden  at  the  moment. 
If  it  won't  bore  Anne,  I  should  like  to  keep  her  here 
for  a  little  until  we  know  each  other.  You're  not  in 
all  that  hurry  to  go  to  school,  are  you  ?  "  she  said 
to  her  guest,  who  flushed  and  shook  her  head,  too  shy 
to  utter  the  relief  that  was  overwhelming  her. 

"  That's  all  right  then,  because  all  well-regulated 
schools  are  having  their  Easter  holidays,  so  we  shall 
have  time  to  make  friends  ;  and  I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  have  you,  my  dear.  In  the  meantime  I'm  going 
to  take  a  hostess's  privilege  and  kiss  you." 

She  laid  a  hand  on  the  child's  shoulder  and  drew 
her  nearer.  Anne  put  up  her  lips  like  an  obedient 
baby,  and,  to  Gilbert's  surprise  and  discomfort,  when 
Francesca  had  kissed  her  she  burst  into  tears. 

He  obeyed  with  alacrity  Francesca's  peremptory 
orders  to  go  away,  orders  she  conveyed  with  one 
significant  glance  at  the  door.  Afterwards,  when 
Anne  was  in  bed,  he  thought  it  necessary,  or  at  least 
advisable,  for  him  to  apologise  for  his  charge's  be- 
haviour. He  and  Francesca  were  smoking  cigarettes 
in  the  garden,  by  the  golden  light  of  a  full  moon 
that  lit  up  the  white  and  pale  yellow  flowers  like 
a  lantern  shining  on  polished  gold  and  silver,  and 
left  the  other  little  coloured  heads  asleep  in  the 
mysterious  dimness  that  was  neither  darkness  nor 
light. 

"  Funny,  you  know,"  he  began  rather  awkwardly, 
"  Anne  crying  like  that  at  tea.  I've  never  known  her 
do  that  before." 


40  ANNE 

"  You've  known  her  about  a  fortnight,  haven't 
you  ?  "  enquired  Francesca  drily — so  drily  that  he 
thought  the  apology  needed  amplifying.  After  all, 
he  had  imposed  this  whim  of  his  upon  Francesca 
with  a  written  guarantee  that  there  was  "  no  non- 
sense about  her,"  and  before  the  child  had  been  in 
the  house  an  hour  she  had  infringed  the  first  elemen- 
tary rule  of  the  game  he  had  implied  she  could 
invariably  play. 

"  But  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  her,"  he  explained  ; 
"  and  I  assure  you  it  was  very  unlike  her.  I  dare  say 
she  was  tired  ;  she  didn't  eat  any  lunch." 

Francesca  threw  away  her  cigarette  and  thrust  her 
hands  into  the  pockets  of  the  long  coat  she  was  wear- 
ing over  her  black  dinner-dress  as  she  faced  him 
among  her  beds  of  wallflowers. 

"  My  dear  Gilbert,"  she  expostulated,  "  if  you've 
adopted  Anne  under  the  delusion  that  female  children 
of  fifteen  are  made  of  indiarubber  and  steel  springs, 
I'm  sorry  for  you,  and  I  should  be  still  sorrier  for 
Anne  if  I  intended  to  allow  her  to  be  left  to  your 
mercies,  which  I  don't.  You  dig  up  a  very  highly- 
strung,  shy,  nervous  child  by  the  roots,  take  her  away 
from  the  only  friends  she's  got,  travel  all  day  without 
seeing  she  has  anything  to  eat,  and  plant  her  among 
strangers  without  giving  her  any  assurance  that  she 
won't  be  starved  or  ill-used.  When  she  discovered 
that  life  included  not  only  tea  and  cake  but  a  little 
petting,  the  poor  baby's  relief  was  too  much  for 
her  tightly  screwed-up  nerves ;  and  why  you 
think  it  necessary  to  apologise  for  her  I  cannot 
imagine." 

"  You  talk  as  if  I  had  been  brutal  to  her,  which  is 
as  ridiculous  as  to  tell  me  that  she  is  nervous  ;  she's 


ANNE  41 

the  coolest,  calmest  hand  for  her  age  that  I've  ever 
come  across." 

"  That  proves  she  has  brains  as  well  as  nerves," 
said  Francesca  serenely  ;  "  the  two  possessions  aren't 
mutually  exclusive  you  know." 

It  was  borne  in  upon  Gilbert's  mind  that  between 
Francesca  and  Anne  there  had  been  established  some 
subtle  bond  in  which  he  had  no  part.  It  did  not  ex- 
clude him  ;  it  simply  passed  over  his  head. 


IT  was  John  Halliday's  fault  that  Anne  was  expelled 
from  the  first  school  at  which  Francesca  placed  her. 
It  was  a  modern  school  and  an  admirable  institution 
on  its  own  lines.  The  girls,  a  hundred  of  them,  wore 
a  sensible,  if  shapeless,  uniform  of  dull  green  serge  ; 
they  had  good  food,  plenty  of  fresh  air  and  exercise, 
and  were  given  a  great  deal  of  correlated  information 
on  a  rational  system  that  made  it  easy  for  them  to 
retain  and  digest  as  much  of  the  knowledge  that  was 
imparted  to  them  as  happened  to  interest  them,  and 
no  academical  system  yet  devised  can  honestly  claim 
to  do  more.  The  girls  were  also  allowed  a  generous 
amount  of  liberty  in  the  safe  seclusion  of  the  Sussex 
hills.  But  no  head-mistress  of  a  popular  girls' 
school  can  run  the  risk  of  enduring  twice  what  Miss 
Hunter  unexpectedly  suffered  once. 

John  Halliday,  arrived  in  London  and  finding  his 
level  in  Fleet  Street,  took  the  first  opportunity  of 
going  out  to  Hillfield  to  see  Anne.  Holding  the  un- 
assailable position  of  being  Anne's  guardian,  and 
happening  to  have  gone  on  a  whole  holiday,  he 
carried  her  off  for  the  day.  He  would  have  preferred 
to  spend  the  time  on  the  Sussex  Downs,  but  Anne, 
when  the  alternative  of  a  walk  to  a  neighbouring 
village  and  a  matinee  in  London  were  suggested  to 
her,  inevitably  chose  the  matinee.  He  took  her  up 

42 


ANNE  43 

by  the  next  train.  They  had  lunch  in  a  little  French 
restaurant  in  Soho,  a  dingy,  garish,  joyous  little 
restaurant,  where  the  food  was  cheap  and  strange, 
and  the  company  was  cheerful  and  noisy,  as  cheap 
and  strange  as  the  food,  and  as  garish  as  the  deco- 
rations. Anne,  in  her  demure  sage  green  uniform 
and  her  sailor  hat  with  the  school  ribbon  round  it, 
looked  conspicuously  out  of  place,  and  John  discerned 
this  before  the  room  was  full ;  but  Anne  enjoyed  the 
novelty  and  the  excitement  after  weeks  of  school 
life,  and  he  had  not  the  hardness  of  heart  to  hurry 
her  through  the  meal ;  nor  had  he  the  gift  of  hurrying 
waiters.  After  lunch  he  took  her  to  a  matinee.  It 
was  Hamlet,  and  they  both  enjoyed  it — Anne  the 
rare  experience  of  being  in  a  theatre  at  all,  and  John 
the  joy  and  the  pleasing  illusion  of  renewing  his 
share  in  Anne's  education.  Afterwards  they  had 
tea  at  a  confectioner's  in  the  Strand  where  he 
plied  her  with  chocolate  eclairs  and  enthusiastic 
criticism. 

"  There's  a  poet  for  you  !  He's  like  some  wonderful 
great  building,  you  see  he's  fine,  but  you  don't  find 
out  how  big  he  is  till  you  study  the  detail,  and  then  it 
comes  to  you  gradually.  Some  of  these  new  little 
newspaper  fellows  use  the  word  theatrical  as  if  it 
meant  something  vulgar  and  cheap  :  but  that's  all 
wrong,  Anne,  you  know.  Shakespeare  is  really  the 
most  theatrical  dramatist  that  ever  was,  and  it's 
pure  poetry.  Ophelia  is  mad,  and  he  gives  her 
flowers  to  play  with — rosemary,  pansies,  wild  flowers, 
lovely  gentle  things  like  her  thoughts  ;  she  is  just  a 
little  girl.  In  King  Lear  the  old  man  is  mad  and  he 
crowns  him  with  '  rank  fumiter,  burdocks,  nettles, 
hemlock,  darnel,'  evil  weeds — all  pure  symbolism — 


44  ANNE 

theatrical  symbolism,  and  the  simplest,  most  glorious 
poetry." 

Anne  listened  in  her  silent  way,  her  large  intelligent 
eyes  alight  with  thought  and  eagerness.  Then  she 
said  reflectively,  carefully  biting  a  large  chocolate 
Eclair  : 

"  I  wonder  why  he  made  Hamlet  such  a  cad  ?  " 

"  Hamlet !  A  cad  !  Great  Scott,  my  dear  child  ! 
if  that  is  what  they  teach  you  at  Hillfield  I'm  blowed 
if  I  don't  insist  upon  you  being  removed  !  " 

"  They're  not  teaching  me  Hamlet  at  all ;  we're 
doing  Julius  Ccesar.  I  think  he  was  a  cad,  from  what 
I've  seen  of  him  this  afternoon.  He  was  a  cad  to 
treat  Ophelia  like  that." 

"  Was  he  ?  "  said  John  blankly.  He  looked  at 
Anne  in  a  puzzled  way  as  she  calmly  ate  eclairs  and 
gave  him  new  and  enlightening  points  of  view.  "  It 
hadn't  occurred  to  me." 

"  She  hadn't  done  anything,  and  he  was  simply 
horrid  to  her." 

They  solemnly  discussed  Shakespeare  for  about 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  longer,  and  then  John 
looked  up  at  the  clock.  It  was  half-past  six. 

"  Lord  !  "  said  John,  "  we've  missed  your  train  !  " 

The  next,  and  last,  and  very  slow  train  to  Hillfield 
left  at  nine-forty,  at  which  hour  Anne  should  have 
been  in  bed. 

"  I  shan't  be  back  till  eleven  o'clock,"  said  Anne. 
"  What  fun  !  " 

"  As  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done,  we  may  as 
well  make  the  most  of  it." 

He  was  rather  puzzled  to  know  what  to  do  with 
her.  He  didn't  like  to  take  her  to  dine  at  any  of  the 
little  cheap  restaurants  in  Soho  that  he  knew,  nor 


ANNE  45 

could  they  go  to  any  of  the  big  hotels,  he  had  neither 
the  money  nor  the  presence  of  mind.  He  thought  of 
taking  her  to  the  Exhibition  at  Earl's  Court,  but  did 
not  wish  to  risk  missing  the  last  train,  and  thought  it 
might  be  difficult  to  get  Anne  away  again.  Then  he 
remembered  the  careless  advice  of  a  chance  acquaint- 
ance he  had  made  in  the  waiting-room  of  the  Daily 
Chronicle  office,  an  untidy  young  critic  with  whom  he 
had  had  a  friendly  but  violent  argument,  who  had 
said  at  parting,  "  Come  to  the  Cafe  de  la  Lune  one 
evening  and  we'll  have  a  quiet  chat  on  the  subject." 
A  cafe  where  a  quiet  chat  was  possible  must  be  a 
quiet  one  he  imagined.  So  he  took  Anne  to  dine  at 
the  Cafe  de  la  Lune  in  Leicester  Square. 

They  were  very  early,  and  found  it  as  quiet  as  John 
desired.  He  was  anxious  to  find  out  whether  Anne 
was  really  happy  in  her  new  home.  He  was  pleased 
to  find  that  she  was,  and  that  she  evidently  had 
found  in  Mrs.  Waring  a  kind,  wise  friend.  This  was 
a  great  relief  to  his  personal  affection  and  sense  of 
responsibility  ;  but  at  the  same  time  there  was  an 
unsatisfied,  chivalrous,  romantic  instinct  lurking  at 
the  back  of  his  consciousness  that  would  have  been 
better  pleased  if  Anne  had  wept  and  implored  him 
to  take  her  away  and  take  charge  of  her  himself.  He 
didn't  want  Anne  to  be  unhappy,  but  he  did  want  to 
befriend  and  comfort  and  protect  her.  He  recognised 
that  it  was  an  idiotic,  illogical  instinct  to  be  sternly 
suppressed.  What  on  earth  could  he  do  with  her  ? 
Why  he  didn't  even  see  his  way  to  stop  her  eating 
the  strange  and  probably  indigestible  salad  that  a 
foreign,  and  therefore  senseless,  waiter  had  handed 
to  her.  But  the  suppressed  instinct,  imprisoned  and 
fettered,  looked  out  of  his  eyes  rather  wistfully,  and 


46  ANNE 

Anne  saw  it  and  felt  a  little  disloyal  because  she 
didn't  want  to  go  back  to  the  happy  but  grubby, 
untidy,  shabby  world  that  was  John's.  He  had  been 
very  kind  to  her,  and  she  loved  him  ;  but  Francesca 
was  also  kind  to  her,  and  petted  her  in  a  woman's 
way  denied  to  John.  Anne  was  contented  at  school, 
but  Francesca's  home  was  the  house  she  was  happy 
in.  The  cleanliness  and  order  and  simple  comfort  of 
a  well-managed  house  was  luxury  to  Anne,  who  had 
never  known  one  before.  A  house  where  everything 
was  magically  clean  without  the  ugly  machinery  of 
cleanliness,  pails  full  of  dirty  water  and  worn  scrub- 
bing brushes  and  torn  dish-cloths,  being  in  evidence  ; 
with  meals,  well-cooked  and  served  without  apparent 
effort  or  clatter  or  accidents,  was  as  wonderful  to 
Anne  as  a  crystal  palace  in  a  fairy  tale.  She  felt  very 
much  as  a  sun-loving  plant  might  be  supposed  to  feel 
suddenly  transplanted  from  a  dark  damp  corner  into 
open  sunshine.  And  she  felt  it  was  ungrateful  to 
John,  so  she  tried  to  atone  for  it  by  dwelling  on  the 
rapidity  with  which  she  was  acquiring  information 
at  school,  information  that  was  to  be  so  valuable  an 
asset  in  their  future  enterprise  of  editing  and  sub- 
editing whatever  publication  should  need  their  joint 
services  when  she  had  finished  her  education.  It  was 
understood  that  by  that  time,  say  in  two  years,  he 
would  have  found  some  such  paper,  if  not  The  Times 
or  the  Aihenceum,  some  equally  respectable  rival ; 
"  a  quarterly  one  would  do,"  said  Anne,  partly  to 
show  that  she  knew  of  the  existence  of  such  unexcit- 
ing products  of  journalism,  partly  to  prove  that  she 
was  not  exacting  in  her  demands  on  Providence. 

And  John  was  young  enough  and  lonely  enough  to 
play  with  the  idea  as  seriously  as  such  charming  toys 


ANNE  47 

are  meant  to  be  played  with,  and  to  feel  no  inclination 
to  laugh  nor  to  disillusion  her,  only  an  instinct  to 
keep  her  guileless  faith  in  him  and  in  the  future  as 
a  very  precious  possession.  He  was  finding  the  world 
he  was  trying  to  live  in  a  difficult  place  to  dream  in 
with  tranquillity. 

In  this  hour  with  Anne  he  forgot  his  troubles  and 
struggles  and  disillusionments.  With  a  solemnity  to 
match  her  innocence  he  discussed  their  future  careers 
as  if  they  were  two  partners  in  a  business  that  was 
a  practical  concern  with  capital,  and  premises,  and 
advertisements,  and  every  accessory  of  a  well- 
financed  undertaking,  assured  and  in  being,  quite 
ignorant  of  the  fact  that  he  had  brought  Anne  to  an 
inappropriate  place  in  which  to  pass  an  idyllically 
innocent  evening.  He  was  quite  pleased  with  him- 
self for  recollecting  that  they  had  to  catch  the  nine- 
thirty  train,  and  moreover  for  catching  it. 

Unfortunately  Miss  Ogilvy -Hunter  was  a  Londoner 
with  brothers,  and  she  knew  enough  about  the  Cafe 
de  la  Lune  to  object  to  her  pupils  dining  there  in 
school  uniform.  In  a  long  letter  to  Francesca  she 
explained  that  she  might  have  overlooked  the  in- 
fringement of  all  the  laws  of  her  establishment  that 
were  broken  by  Anne's  arrival  back  at  eleven-thirty 
p.m.  chaperoned  by  an  insufficiently  apologetic  young 
man,  if  the  adventure  had  only  included  Hamlet  and 
tea  at  a  Strand  tea-shop  ;  but  dinner  at  the  Cafe  de 
la  Lune.  .  .  .  The  gist  of  the  letter  was  that  she  pre- 
ferred the  charge  of  girls  who  were  not  handicapped 
by  the  possession  of  guardians  who  considered  such 
places  suitable  resorts  in  which  to  overstay  leave  on 
half-term  holidays. 

Francesca  laughed,  and  frowned,  and  transferred 


48  ANNE 

Anne  to  a  school  in  Norfolk,  where  there  was  a  train 
service  of  such  inconvenience  that  it  was  not  possible 
to  get  there  and  back  in  one  day  from  London. 

She  was  grateful  to  Anne  for  bringing  a  new  and 
absorbing  interest  into  her  life.  Since  the  death  of 
her  husband  she  had  had  two  great  interests  apart 
from  Gilbert — her  garden  and  social  reform.  Her 
bookshelves  were  crowded  with  volumes  on  political 
economy  and  horticulture.  She  read  with  zest  every 
book  and  paper  that  she  could  buy  or  borrow.  In 
her  desire  to  remedy  some  of  the  ills  that  afflict 
struggling  humanity  she  was  as  anxious  that  some  of 
the  legislative  medicines  recommended  in  their  pages 
by  enthusiastic  propagandists  should  be  tried  on  the 
population  of  the  British  Isles  as  she  was  ready  to 
experiment  on  the  plants  in  her  garden  with  suffi- 
ciently advertised  patent  fertilizers.  She  welcomed 
Anne  into  her  life  as  she  would  have  welcomed  a  new 
seedling  into  her  greenhouse,  with  the  same  hope  and 
benevolent  critical  interest,  and  to  this  she  added 
personal  affection. 

But  FraiKesca  remarked  that  Anne's  guardians 
were  two  too  many  for  her  when  Gilbert  was  the  cause 
of  her  leaving  the  second  school.  When  Anne  was 
nearly  seventeen,  and  when  Miss  Duke,  the  head- 
mistress, and  Francesca  were  both  hoping  she  would 
pass  the  London  Matriculation  Examination  and  con- 
tinue her  education  at  Bedford  College,  Gilbert  fell 
in  love  with  her.  She  was  home  for  the  summer  holi- 
days, and  had  just  put  her  hair  up  and  lengthened 
her  skirts.  Gilbert  came  down  from  London  un- 
expectedly, walked  up  from  the  station  and  into  the 
drawing-room  by  the  French  window,  and  discovered 
a  new  Anne  sitting  on  the  writing-table  arranging 


ANNE.  49 

white  lilies  in  a  tall  glass.  The  uniformed  schoolgirl 
with  long  plaits  had  changed  into  a  different  feminine 
creature  with  a  heavy  crown  of  fair  hair  and  a  pretty 
new  blue  dress.  She  neither  saw  nor  heard  him,  being 
entirely  absorbed  in  her  determination  to  make  the 
tall  flowers  stay  in  the  attitudes  that  best  displayed 
their  beauty.  Her  unconsciousness  as  she  sat  there 
amused  him,  until  he  found  he  was  possessed  by  a 
sudden  desire  to  greet  her  by  kissing  the  little  curls 
on  the  nape  of  her  neck.  The  wish  surprised  and 
embarrassed  him.  He  hurriedly  pulled  himself 
together  and  jerked  out  his  usual  salutation  of 
"  Hello,  Anne  !  " 

She  turned  and  smiled  at  him ;  something  seemed 
to  make  her  a  little  self-conscious.  He  could  almost 
have  imagined  that  he  had  somehow  communicated 
his  embarrassment  to  her.  She  said,  "  I've  got  my 
hair  up." 

"So  I  see,"  he  replied,  but  that  wasn't  enough  for  her. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?  "  she  persisted,  and  her  large, 
very  blue  eyes  pleaded  almost  as  if  her  life  depended 
upon  his  liking  it  very  much. 

"  I  like  it  immensely,"  he  said,  eyeing  her  critically. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is  that  it  won't  stay  up,"  she 
explained.  "It  is  always  coming  down  !  Do  you 
like  my  new  shoes  ?  "  She  stretched  out  her  pretty 
feet  in  a  pair  of  high-heeled,  silver-buckled  shoes  and 
blue  silk  stockings. 

"  I  like  them  very  much,  and  to  save  time  I  like 
the  new  frock  too.  You  seem  to  have  been  going  it, 
young  woman." 

"  I  have  been  scolded  already  for  spending  too 
much  money,  so  you  needn't  any  more,  unless  you 
want  to.  I've  got  an  awfully  nice  new  hat  too." 


50  ANNE 

"  Put  it  on  and  come  for  a  walk.  What  a  comfort 
Francesca  is  !  " 

While  Anne  was  happily  and  candidly  flirting  with 
Gilbert  with  the  half-confident,  half-timid  ways  of  a 
young  bird  fluttering  with  untried  wings,  Francesca 
was  conscientiously  studying  her  school  report  and 
a  covering  letter  from  the  headmistress.  The  official 
document  was  the  record  of  the  irreconcilable  views 
of  the  school  staff.  According  to  one  mistress,  Anne 
had  great  application ;  another  mistress  recorded 
that  she  would  not  work.  In  one  class  she  was  re- 
ported to  be  industrious,  painstaking,  and  intelligent ; 
in  another  idle,  careless,  absent-minded,  and  dreamy. 
Francesca  found  her  mind  divided  between  an  im- 
pulse to  shake  Anne  and  a  vague  determination  to 
write  an  article  for  the  Nineteenth  Century  on  the 
demerits  of  educational  systems  in  general. 

Francesca  showed  the  report  to  Gilbert  that 
evening. 

He  glanced  at  it  impatiently  and  tossed  it  aside. 

"  School  marm's  drivel !  What  does  it  matter 
whether  Anne  is  top  or  bottom  of  a  lot  of  little  giggling 
schoolgirls  in  Latin  and  arithmetic  ?  She's  going  to 
be  a  very  charming  woman.  Isn't  it  about  time  she 
left  school  ?  " 

"  You're  not  exactly  a  model  guardian,"  remarked 
Francesca.  "  I  shall  send  this  on  to  John  Halliday. 
His  interest  in  her  education  is  really  conscientious." 

Three  days  later  Gilbert  reopened  the  subject  him- 
self. He  had  spent  the  time  very  happily  with  Anne. 
He  was  teaching  her  to  drive,  to  play  golf,  and  to 
smoke  cigarettes.  Francesca  observed  that,  whatever 
pastime  occupied  them,  Anne  was  intensely  interested 
in  whatever  she  was  doing,  or  trying  to  accomplish, 


ANNE  51 

to  the  exclusion  of  any  apparent  interest  in  her  in- 
structor ;  while  Gilbert  was  obviously  more  interested 
in  his  pupil  herself  than  in  her  progress  :  her  failures 
amused  and  pleased  him  as  much  as  her  successes. 

Francesca  was  spending  a  happy  afternoon  mark- 
ing rose-growers'  catalogues.  She  looked  up  at  her 
brother  with  a  gracious  but  absent-minded  smile  of 
welcome  as  he  came  into  the  room  and  sat  down  on 
the  arm  of  her  biggest  chair.  She  half-turned  round 
from  her  writing-table  with  her  pencil  hovering  over 
the  page. 

"  I'm  getting  rid  of  five  Frau  Carl  Druschkis,  great 
fat  white  cabbage  things  without  any  scent.  I  think 
I  shall  have  another  Mrs.  Grant  and  a  Victor  Hugo — 
perhaps  two  Victor  Hugos,  I  love  the  deep  red  ones  ; 
and  a  Killarney.  .  .  ." 

At  this  point  she  became  aware  that  Gilbert's  mind 
was  not  with  her.  She  stopped  and  looked  at  him 
interrogatively. 

"  Isn't  it  about  time  Anne  left  school  ?  "  he  en- 
quired. 

Francesca  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  At  sixteen  ?  " 

"  She  is  nearly  seventeen." 

"  Seventeen  is  full  young  for  college ;  but  next 
year  you  know,  if  she  passes  her  Matric.  .  .  ." 

"  Examinations  and  college  are  all  very  well  for  dull 
girls  with  intellects.  Over-educated  females  are  bores." 

"  Badly  educated  females  are  worse  bores ;  and 
Anne  has  an  intellect,  don't  you  make  any  mistake 
about  it." 

"  Anne  will  never  be  a  bore,"  replied  Gilbert. 
"  And  I  don't  think  she's  a  bit  keen  on  examinations." 

"  Just  at  present  she's  only  keen  on  golf — that's 


52  ANNE 

your  doing,  and  it's  holiday  time.  But  what  is  in 
your  mind  ?  What  would  you  propose  doing  with  her 
if  she  left  school  ?  " 

"  Marrying  her,"  said  Gilbert.  He  spoke  boldly, 
but  looked  a  little  anxiously  at  Francesca. 

She  laid  down  her  pencil  and  rose  from  her  chair. 
Her  lips  parted,  but  for  a  moment  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Marry  !  "  she  exclaimed  at  last.    "  That  baby  !  " 

She  wasn't  sure  what  she  wanted  to  say.  She  had 
wanted  Gilbert  to  get  married,  but  not  to  anybody 
in  particular.  Theoretically  she  disapproved  of  girls 
marrying  so  young,  but  she  was  too  fond  of  Gilbert 
to  oppose  him  merely  for  theoretical  reasons  ;  and 
she  was  old  enough  to  know  the  futility  of  interfer- 
ence in  other  people's  love  affairs — if  this  was  a  love 
affair  that  she  had  to  deal  with.  She  was  as  as- 
tonished and  puzzled  as  she  would  have  been  if  the 
sweet-brier  bush  by  her  window  had  suddenly  borne 
hybrid  tea-roses. 

"  My  dear  Gilbert !  Have  you  really  fallen  in  love 
with  the  child  ?  " 

"  She's  going  to  be  a  very  charming  woman." 

"I'm  sure  she  is,  but  why  not  wait  until  then  ? 
A  couple  of  years  !  " 

"  And  let  some  other  fellow  walk  in  and  walk 
off  with  her  ?  Why  should  I  be  such  a  fool  ?  " 

"  But  Anne  ?    Is  it  fair  to  Anne  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  She's  seen  so  few  men,  you  and  John  Halliday  !  " 

"  Fate  has  given  her  two  guardians  obviously, 
intending  her  to  marry  one  of  them.  Do  you  think 
I'd  be  a  worse  husband  than  John  Halliday  ?  " 

"  Have  you  proposed  to  Anne  ?  What  does  she 
say  ?  " 


ANNE  53 

"  I've  said  nothing.  I  thought  I'd  sound  you 
first." 

Francesca's  face  cleared. 

"  I  believe  she'd  say  '  no.'  I'm  sure  the  idea  has 
never  entered  her  head." 

"  Then  I  propose  to  let  it  enter  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity." 

"  If  she  says  '  no  '  it  won't  be  fair  to  press  her." 

At  this  moment  Anne  looked  in  at  the  window  to 
announce  that  it  had  stopped  raining  and  that  she 
was  going  to  practise  putting  on  the  lawn  if  she 
could  only  find  the  putter.  Gilbert  discovered  that 
he  was  holding  it,  and  he  was  out  of  the  window, 
walking  beside  Anne  down  the  path,  before  a  feeble 
remark  about  wet  grass  had  passed  Francesca's  lips. 

Anne  produced  two  balls  from  her  pocket,  dropped 
one  for  a  target  and  moved  the  other  some  yards 
away. 

"  Are  my  hands  right  now  ?  "  she  asked  as  she 
grasped  the  club. 

"  Not  quite.    Give  them  to  me." 

She  obeyed,  and  he  drew  her  near  to  him. 

"  Do  you  know  that  I've  fallen  in  love  with  you  ?  " 

"  Have  you  ?  "  She  seemed  pleased  and  interested, 
but  in  no  way  embarrassed. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  love  me  well  enough  to 
marry  me  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  amazement  and  bewil- 
derment in  her  great  blue  eyes,  and  when  he  stooped 
to  kiss  her  she  put  up  her  lips  as  simply  as  a  very 
young  child.  When  the  next  moment  she  drew  away 
from  him  he  released  her,  and  she  asked  : 

"  Do  you  mean  you  want  me  to  marry  you  instead 
of  going  back  to  school  ?  " 


54  ANNE 

"  I  do.    Will  you,  darling  little  Anne  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  she  said  slowly,  after  consider- 
ing the  matter  for  a  few  seconds  with  a  thoughtful, 
puzzled  expression  of  a  child  pondering  over  a  problem 
in  mental  arithmetic. 

She  submitted  to  his  kissing  her  again,  then  frankly 
wriggled  away  and  picked  up  the  club. 

"  Now  show  me  how  to  hold  it,"  she  commanded. 


CHAPTER   V 

FRANCESCA'S  method  of  dealing  with  the  situation 
created  by  Gilbert's  impetuosity  and  Anne's  youth 
was  tactful,  so  much  so  that  the  tact  passed  over 
Anne's  head  completely.  She  was  too  discreet  to 
attempt  to  force  the  girl's  confidence,  and  Anne  was 
too  absorbed  in  her  own  mind  to  discern  that  Fran- 
cesca  was  appealing  for  something  more  from  her  than 
amiability  and  politeness.  Francesca  found  that  this, 
the  decision  to  marry  Gilbert,  was  the  first  responsi- 
bility the  child  had  ever  had  to  face.  So  far  her  life 
had  been  decided  for  her.  As  she  could  not  discover 
the  slightest  doubt  in  Anne's  mind  that  the  decision 
was  a  wise  one,  nor  any  hesitations,  she  did  not  feel 
that  her  duty  included  the  task  of  manufacturing  any 
and  putting  them  into  her  head.  She  invited  John 
Halliday  down  for  the  week-end  and  explained  her 
perplexity  to  him.  He  had  heard  the  news  from 
Anne  herself  and  came  down  quite  resolved  to  with- 
hold his  consent.  He  looked  ill  and  tired  yet 
absurdly  young  as  he  stood  on  Francesca's  hearth- 
rug and  declared  that  it  wasn't  fair  and  that  he 
wouldn't  have  it.  He  seemed  to  think  that  it  was 
Francesca's  duty  to  put  an  end  to  it. 

Francesca  shook  her  head. 

"  I've  no  right  to  interfere  drastically.  Besides 
if  they've  both  made  up  their  minds  it  is  no  use. 

55 


56  ANNE 

She  is  young,  but  lots  of  girls  have  been  married 
at  her  age,  and  one  can  only  make  quite  sure  that 
she  really  knows  her  own  mind.  She  seems  to.  You 
know  her  better  than  I  do,  you  talk  to  her." 

Francesca  was  being  tactful  with  John  and  he 
dimly  appreciated  it.  And  while  he  was  cross- 
questioning  Anne  in  the  sunny  garden  Francesca 
was  telling  herself  that,  at  any  rate,  if  Gilbert  married 
Anne  now,  she  would  be  spared  the  problem  of  dealing 
with  John  if  he  developed  a  similar  wish  later  on  : 
at  least  Gilbert  had  an  income. 

John  was  saying  very  earnestly  : 

"  Look  here,  Anne,  it's  all  very  well,  but  are  you 
absolutely  certain  that  you  want  to  marry  Gilbert  ?  " 

She  looked  surprised,  and  a  little  offended  when 
her  answer  left  him  unconvinced. 

"  Why  do  you  ?  "  he  persisted  desperately.  "  How 
do  you  know  you're  in  love  with  him  ?  Would  you 
have  wanted  to  if  he  hadn't  proposed  to  you  ?  " 

Anne  submitted  to  the  catechism  with  a  docility 
that  disturbed  John.  He  felt  that  he  had  no  right 
to  cross-examine  her,  and  the  very  fact  that  she 
didn't  resent  it  puzzled  him  and  quickened  the  dis- 
may that  had  invaded  his  soul  when  he  first  heard 
the  news.  At  last  he  extracted  from  her  the  con- 
fidence that  she  wanted  to  marry  Gilbert  because 
she  would  hate  it  if  he  married  anybody  else.  He 
carried  this  reason  back  to  Francesca  and  argued  it 
was  a  proof  that  the  child  didn't  know  what  she  was 
about.  Francesca  smiled  at  his  worried  face. 

"  But  I  believe  that  is  the  only  reason  any  woman 
ever  marries  any  man — because  she'd  hate  him  to 
marry  anybody  else  !  " 

So  John  had  to  be  discontented.     He  could  not 


ANNE  57 

bear  to  be  churlish  to  Anne,  but  he  vented  his  dis- 
approval on  Gilbert,  who  took  it  so  genially  that 
John's  discontent  deepened  into  annoyance  ;  but  his 
remonstrances  had  a  mild  effect.  For  Gilbert  went 
to  Anne,  who  was  gathering  sweet-peas  ;  he  picked 
her  up  and  put  her  on  the  wall  that  divided  the 
garden  from  the  orchard,  the  grey  stone  wall  tapes- 
tried with  bright  green  mosses.  She  was  an  enchant- 
ing little  figure  as  she  sat  there  with  her  arms  full 
of  pink  and  mauve  flowers,  smiling  down  through  the 
flickering  sunshine  and  shade  of  the  laburnum  tree. 
An  old  "  Gloire  de  t)ijon  "  rose  was  in  full  blossom 
among  its  branches  and  Anne  leant  sideways  to  lay 
her  face  against  the  warm  sweet  creamy  roses  she 
couldn't  reach  from  the  ground. 

"  Anne,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Go  on,"  she  replied  without  turning  her  head. 
"  I  can  listen  quite  well  while  I'm  smelling  the  roses." 

But  he  put  his  arms  round  her  and  made  her  face 
him  as  he  stood  looking  up  at  her. 

"  Francesca  and  John  have  been  telling  me  what 
a  kid  you  are." 

"  I'm  not.    I'm  seventeen." 

"  And  they've  been  telling  me  what  a  sweep  I  am 
to  marry  you  before  you've  seen  other  men  that  you 
might  like  better." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  said  that  I  wasn't  going  to." 

Anne  flushed  and  looked  so  astonished  and  dis- 
appointed that  Gilbert  laughed  out  loud  as  his  arms 
went  round  her  closer. 

"  What  an  adorable  baby  you  are  !  " 

"  I'm  not !  "  she  said  furiously.  "  And  you're 
squashing  my  sweet-peas  !  Don't,  Gilbert !  " 


58  ANNE 

"  I  told  them  that  I'd  make  it  my  business  to  show 
you  hundreds  of  men  before  I  married  you,  and  let 
you  change  your  mind  if  you  saw  anyone  you  liked 
better.  Aren't  I  a  magnanimous  chap  ?  And  did 
you  think  I'd  changed  my  mind  and  decided  to  send 
you  back  to  school  ?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  go."  She  leaned  away  from  him  and 
picked  a  full-blown  rose,  and  when  he  lifted  her  down 
and  bent  to  kiss  her  she  held  it  up  before  her  face. 
He  felt  his  lips  brushed  by  the  smooth  sweet  petals, 
and  Anne  escaped  from  him  and  raced  across  the 
lawn  as  he  had  seen  her  run  when  the  baker  chased 
her. 

Francesca  watched  their  courtship  with  tender 
amusement.  Gilbert  alternately  teased  Anne  and 
petted  her ;  and  it  seemed  to  Francesca  that  Anne 
took  the  teasing  with  a  far  better  grace  than  the 
petting.  It  was  difficult  to  judge  whether  Anne  dis- 
liked being  caressed  by  Gilbert  or  whether  she  merely 
preferred  coquetting  with  him.  Francesca's  opinion 
was  that  the  child  didn't  know  herself,  that  it  amused 
her  more  to  get  her  own  way  than  to  be  made  love 
to — and  that  she  certainly  took  very  kindly  indeed 
to  flirting. 

Gilbert  fulfilled  his  promise  of  giving  Anne  a 
glimpse  of  other  men  by  devoting  a  week  to  the 
undertaking  when  Francesca  took  her  up  to  London 
to  buy  her  trousseau.  Anne,  if  she  had  been  left  to 
herself,  would  have  chosen  to  spend  every  hour  of  the 
day  shopping,  and  every  evening  at  theatres.  She 
enjoyed  herself  with  a  glee  that  reconciled  Francesca 
to  the  waste  of  time  involved  in  purging  the  trousseau 
of  the  unsuitable  garments  Anne  wished  to  purchase. 
But  Anne's  time  was  allotted  for  her. 


ANNE  59 

Gilbert  said  firmly,  "  I'm  told  you've  not  seen  any 
men.  You  are  going  to  see  them." 

So  he  took  Anne  to  lunch  at  Simpson's  and  the 
Cheshire  Cheese  ;  to  the  Law  Courts  ;  down  Throg- 
morton  Avenue  when  the  Stock  Exchange  was  out ; 
to  the  House  of  Commons  where  she  had  tea  on  the 
terrace  and  was  left  in  the  Ladies'  Gallery  to  listen 
to  a  debate  ;  and  to  a  political  meeting  to  watch  the 
proceedings  from  the  back  of  the  platform. 

"  Now  you've  seen  quite  a  representative  assort- 
ment of  men,"  Gilbert  said  at  the  end  of  the  week. 
"  Have  you  seen  any  you  think  you  might  like  better 
than  me  ?  " 

"  Only  one,"  she  said.  "  The  nice  tall  one  in  the 
House  of  Commons  who  made  a  speech." 

With  further  questions  he  elicited  the  fact  that  his 
rival  in  Anne's  affection  was  Mr.  Balfour  and  that 
she  was  perfectly  serious. 

"  You  asked  me,"  she  said  obstinately.  "  And  I 
think  I  should  like  him  awfully ;  and  I  should  love 
to  be  a  Prime  Minister's  wife,  it  would  be  a  little  like 
being  a  queen.  But  as  he  doesn't  know  me  he  can't 
want  to  marry  me,  so  I  suppose  that  settles  it." 

"  I  suppose  it  does,"  he  agreed.  He  laughed  over 
her  with  Francesca  when  Anne,  tired  out,  had  gone 
to  bed  early. 

"  Anne's  taste  seems  to  run  to  mature  Conservative 
politicians.  You  should  have  seen  her  making  eyes 
at  old  Sir  Robert  at  tea  the  other  day  on  the  terrace, 
and  now  she  tells  me  she'd  like  to  marry  the  Prime 
Minister." 

"  Her  taste  in  politicians  may  be  sound,"  said 
Francesca  ;  "  but  her  taste  in  hats  is  appalling.  You 
should  have  seen  the  erection  she  set  her  heart  on 


60  ANNE 

this  morning.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  the  child  looked 
like  in  it !  Yet  she  was  determined  to  have  it.  We 
had  a  regular  battle  over  it.  I  never  knew  she  had 
a  temper." 

"  Oh,  she  has  the  temper  of  a  little  fury,"  replied 
Gilbert  lightly.  "  I  teased  her  the  other  day  at  tea- 
time,  and  went  on  after  I'd  really  got  a  rise  out  of 
her,  and  I'm  blessed  if  she  didn't  snatch  up  the 
bread  knife  !  It  was  the  funniest  thing  I  ever  saw  !  " 

He  laughed,  but  Francesca  looked  at  him  uneasily. 

"  Gilbert !    I  hope  she  was  just  in  fun  ?  " 

"  In  fun  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  You  should  have  seen 
her  eyes.  She'd  have  gone  for  me  with  anything 
that  came  handy." 

"  But  whatever  possessed  her  ?  " 

"  Her  own  private  devil,  I  should  think !  I'd 
been  trying  to  make  her  ladyship  kiss  me.  She 
wouldn't,  so  I  went  on  teasing  her.  Finally,  she  got 
in  a  blazing  rage  and  turned  on  me  with  the 
knife  !  "  As  Francesca  looked  rather  shocked  he 
explained,  "  I  was  a  brute  to  tease  the  child.  I  went 
on  too  long,  but  she  looks  so  pretty  with  her  eyes 
flashing  blue  sparks." 

"  A  temper  like  that  oughtn't  to  be  teased." 

"  A  temper  like  that  doesn't  last  long,"  he  said 
easily.  "  When  I  took  the  knife  away  from  her  and 
asked  her  if  she  was  in  the  habit  of  knifing  her 
governesses  at  school  she  laughed,  and  then  she  very 
nearly  cried  and  was  very  sweet.  She  is  only  a 
kid  !  " 

"  That  is  my  point,"  began  Francesca ;  but  he 
changed  the  subject. 

Gilbert  and  Anne  were  married  at  the  end  of 
September. 


ANNE  61 

John  Halliday  gave  her  away,  and  when  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  had  caught  their  train  to  London  he 
stood  on  the  platform  and  watched  it  until  it  seemed 
as  small  as  a  toy  train  disappearing  into  the  mellow 
golden  distance.  He  looked  white  and  grim  when 
Francesca  touched  his  arm  and  said  : 

"  Let's  come  home  to  tea  !  Is  there  anything  more 
utterly  flat  than  a  wedding  that's  over  ?  It  is  worse 
than  a  funeral — at  least  it  is  decent  to  cry  then." 

He  stared  at  her  oddly  and  said  : 

"  The  worst  of  a  wedding  is  that  it  isn't  the  end 
of  anything,  it's  only  the  beginning." 

"  The  beginning  of  great  happiness  let's  hope,"  she 
said  wistfully. 

"  That's  because  you're  a  nice  woman,"  replied 
John.  "  Nice  women  are  always  so  beastly  optimistic, 
and  it's  the  deuce." 

"  Oh  come,  don't  decry  hope.  Think  of  dear  little 
Anne's  face  and  how  happy  she  looked.  Isn't 
happiness  made  out  of  hope  mostly  ?  " 

"  Anne  isn't  a  nice  woman  yet,"  said  John.  "  She's 
only  a  little  girl,  and  a  naughty  little  girl." 

"  They're  both  awfully  fond  of  each  other,"  per- 
sisted Francesca  cheerfully.  "  That  is  everything." 

"  They're  both  awfully  fond  of  getting  their  own 
way,"  muttered  John. 

During  their  honeymoon  Anne  wrote  the  following 
letters  : 

"  THE  GORING  HOTEL, 

LONDON. 
DEAR  JOHN, 

I  promised  to  write  to  you  first  of  all.    We 

are  staying  here  till  next  Monday.     We  went  to 

Hampton  Court  yesterday,  I'd  never  been  and  it  is 


62  ANNE 

lovely.  We  went  to  the  Criterion  last  night.  It 
was  awfully  nice.  To-morrow  we  are  going  to 
have  dinner  at  the  Carlton  and  going  to  the  Palace. 
I've  never  been  to  a  music-hall.  And  then  we  are 
going  to  Paris.  Gilbert  is  very  kind  to  me  and  I 
am  very  happy.  With  love, 

ANNE." 

"  DEAR  FRANCESCA, 

Paris  is  lovely.     I'm  injoying  myself  aw- 
fully.   I've  no  time  to  write  because  there  is  such 
a  lot  to  see.    I  like  the  pictures  best. 
With  love, 

From 

ANNE." 

This  was  enclosed  in  one  from  Gilbert : 

"  MY  DEAR  FRANCESCA, 

Paris  has  got  into  Anne's  head.  She  is  as 
happy  as  the  day  is  long.  The  studios  amuse  her 
the  most — queer  taste  for  a  little  schoolgirl.  I  got 
an  introduction  to  that  fellow  Revole,  the  latest 
thing  in  portrait  painters,  and  we  went  there.  He 
was  very  polite,  like  all  these  Frenchmen  ;  admired 
Anne  I  fancy ;  the  child  looks  awfully  pretty  in 
her  new  hats ;  and  Anne  took  a  sudden  wild,  mad 
interest  in  his  pictures.  I  couldn't  get  her  away. 
She  wanted  to  know  how  he  did  them  !  He  was 
so  flattered  by  her  interest  that  he  introduced  us 
to  some  other  artists,  and  now  Anne's  one  and  only 
idea  is  pictures  and  more  pictures.  We  are  going 
the  round  of  some  of  the  most  famous  studios,  and 
have  been  to  several  amusing  studio  evenings  at 


ANNE  63 

Revole's.  He  has  done  a  very  clever  little  sketch 
of  Anne,  did  it  in  ten  minutes.  I  shall  have  it 
framed.  It  is  extraordinarily  clever,  in  a  fe\v 
touches  he  has  got  the  little  dancing  blue  devils  in 
her  eyes  and  her  rather  pathetic,  childish,  innocent 
mouth.  He  was  charmed  with  her,  not  in  the  least 
put  out  when  she  pestered  him  with  questions 
about  how  he  painted.  He  said,  '  if  Madame  were 
living  in  Paris  and  wished  to  learn  I  should  be 
honoured  to  have  her  for  a  pupil.'  It  always 
amuses  me  to  hear  Anne  called  '  Madame.'  I'm 
blessed  if  Anne  didn't  want  to  take  him  at  his 
word !  She  begged  and  prayed  me  to  let  her  *  learn 
to  paint  in  Monsieur  Revole's  studio.'  When  I 
explained  that  I  had  a  profession  which  happened 
to  be  at  the  London  Bar  she  wanted  to  be  left 
in  Paris  to  be  an  art  student  in  the  Latin  Quarter  ! 
Said  she'd  only  just  discovered  what  she  really 
wanted  to  be  and  that  was  an  artist.  What  a  kid 
she  is  !  I've  promised  to  buy  her  a  paint-box  and 
a  pinafore  as  soon  as  we're  back  in  London  and 
assured  her  there  were  pictures  and  studios  there. 
Her  reply  to  that  was  that  she  was  quite  sure  they 
were  dull  ones  and  wouldn't  amuse  her.  She 
seems  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  idea  that  our 
old  world  was  created  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
providing  a  place  for  her  to  amuse  herself  in.  Any 
way  she's  enjoying  our  honeymoon,  bless  her ! 
and  I'm  more  in  love  with  her  than  ever. 
Yours  affectionately, 

GILBERT." 

Francesca  went  to  London  to  welcome  them  home 
and  to  prepare  Gilbert's  flat  for  their  reception.    He 


64  ANNE 

had  the  top  part  of  a  small  house  in  Bedford  Row, 
and  the  owner  of  the  house,  who  lived  somewhere 
among  the  offices  underneath,  was  his  housekeeper 
and  cook.  She  was  prepared  to  tolerate  Anne  and 
approved  of  Francesca's  rearrangement  of  the 
rooms.  She,  Mrs.  Mackenzie,  was  a  taciturn  soul 
with  a  lugubrious  outlook  on  life.  It  was  understood 
that  the  late  Mr.  Mackenzie's  conduct  had  not  been 
perfect — not  that  she  ever  said  a  word  against  him, 
but  she  tightened  her  already  thin  lips,  and  shook 
her  head  when  husbands  or  matrimony  were  the 
topics  of  conversation,  like  a  consulting  specialist 
over  unfavourable  symptoms  in  a  case.  Francesca 
had  the  impression  that  she  would  have  been  sorry 
for  Anne  if  loyalty  had  not  staked  out  a  priority 
claim  on  her  pity  for  Gilbert. 

Francesca  filled  their  rooms  with  Michaelmas 
daisies  and  chrysanthemums  from  her  garden,  ex- 
acted a  promise  from  them  to  spend  Christmas  with 
her  and  left  them  to  settle  down. 

"  If  you  can  call  it  settling  down,"  Gilbert  wrote 
a  fortnight  later,  "  the  trick  is  done.  Anrie  has 
joined  an  art  class  in  Chelsea." 


CHAPTER   VI 

ANNE'S  studio  career  was  the  indirect  result  of 
Gilbert's  attempt  to  introduce  her  into  his  social 
world.  His  friends  called  upon  her,  and  he  took  her 
on  Sunday  afternoons  to  return  their  calls,  and 
accepted  various  invitations  to  dinner.  They  dined 
with  his  godfather,  Hurrell  Woodall,  who  lived  with 
a  wife  and  three  daughters  in  a  grim  house  at  Em- 
peror's Gate  ;  at  Hampstead  with  Gilbert's  oldest 
friend,  Frank  Winslow,  the  senior  partner  in  the  firm 
of  Winslow  and  Crowley ;  and  with  the  Charles 
Blakes,  who  lived  in  a  flat  on  Campden  Hill ;  and  at 
all  these  dinner  parties  Anne  was  bored  and  unhappy. 
The  Woodalls  were  all  keen  politicians  :  Anne  was 
not  at  all  sure  whether  she  was  a  Liberal  or  a  Conser- 
vative. She  was  shy  and  silent.  She  had  not  the 
social  education  that  would  have  enabled  her  to  deal 
with  her  own  inexperience,  and  was  too  honest  to 
pretend  to  knowledge  that  she  had  not ;  besides,  she 
was  clever  enough  to  see  the  dangers  of  adventuring 
recklessly  among  unknown  subjects.  The  entire 
family  classified  her  as  uninteresting,  and  Anne  knew 
it,  and  resented  it,  and  took  a  keen  dislike  to  them. 

Mrs.  Winslow  was  literary,  and  so  were  her  friends. 

At  her  dinner-table  the  conversation  turned  on  books 

and  their  writers.    Anne,  having  been  kept  by  John 

Halliday  and  at  school  on  a  diet  of  classics,  knew 

»  65 


66  ANNE 

nothing  more  modern  than  George  Eliot.  None  of 
the  books  mentioned  and  discussed  had  Anne  read. 
Her  hostess  tried  to  be  polite  to  the  little  bride  and 
to  include  her  in  the  conversation,  but  was  baffled  by 
Anne's  cheerful  ignorance  of  the  names  of  Thomas 
Hardy  and  George  Meredith.  The  whole  company 
evidently  thought  Anne  stupid,  and  her  ignorance 
became  less  cheerful :  she  grew  depressed.  Had  she 
been  really  stupid  her  self-esteem  would  have  lifted 
her  above  the  dismal  sense  of  failure  that  oppressed 
her ;  as  it  was  she  felt  mortified. 

The  Blakes  were  musical.  Anne  was  not.  She 
hated  concerts,  and  said  so  naively.  After  dinner 
there  were  songs  in  the  drawing-room.  Anne  was  so 
bored  that  she  first  yawned,  and  then  consoled  herself 
with  a  book.  The  evening  before,  at  the  Winslows, 
her  ignorance  of  current  literature  had  appalled  her 
even  more  than  it  had  surprised  her  hosts  :  on  the 
Blakes'  table  lay  a  book  by  one  of  the  authors  they 
had  discussed,  Thomas  Hardy.  Anne  took  it  up  and 
read  it  steadily,  regardless  of  the  musicians  at  the 
grand  piano  who  were  singing  strange  songs  in  Ger- 
man. German  and  music  were  both  unknown  lan- 
guages to  her,  and  she  became  interested  in  Far  from 
the  Madding  Crowd,  and  then  absorbed  in  it  to  the 
exclusion  of  everything  else  that  was  going  on  around 
her.  Mrs.  Blake  thought  her  rude.  Gilbert  realised 
this  and  resented  it. 

He  scolded  her  in  the  hansom  on  their  way  home. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  criticised  her,  and  Anne, 
whose  young  vanity  was  already  sore  with  the  ex- 
periences of  three  unsuccessful  evenings,  grew  sud- 
denly angry. 

"  I  don't  care  what  they  thought  of  me  !  "  she 


ANNE  67 

retorted  furiously.  "  Why  should  I  care  ?  I  hated 
them  !  It  was  abominably  bad  manners  of  them  to 
let  those  silly  asses  sing  all  that  rot  when  I  didn't 
want  to  hear  them.  I  shall  never  go  to  their  hideous 
house  again,  and  if  I  have  to  go  out  to  any  more 
dinner  parties  I  shall  take  a  book  with  me  and  read 
all  through  dinner  as  well  as  in  the  drawing-room." 

Gilbert  was  not  prepared  for  her  rage,  and  with 
calm  superiority  pointed  out  that  the  music  had  been 
magnificent,  that  the  Blakes  were  most  courteous, 
hospitable  hosts,  and  that  Anne's  attitude  to  excel- 
lent dinners  was  absurd.  At  this  point  in  his  discourse 
she  interrupted  him  again. 

"  I'm  not  listening  to  you,"  she  said,  leaning  out 
over  the  apron  of  the  cab.  "  I  don't  care  how  much 
they  pay  their  beastly  cook.  I'd  rather  stay  at  home 
in  peace  with  a  book  and  have  a  piece  of  cake  and 
an  apple  on  the  hearthrug,  at  least  I  shouldn't  have 
people  bawling  at  me  all  the  evening." 

"  Your  love  of  books  is  a  bit  sudden  !  "  he  said 
ironically.  "  Yesterday  you  gave  the  Winslows  the 
impression  that  you  never  opened  one.  I  nearly  had 
to  explain  that  you  had  learnt  to  read." 

That  taunt  hurt  her.  She  turned  her  head  away 
lest  he  should  see  her  lips  tremble.  The  hansom 
swung  round  the  corner  and  stopped  at  their  door, 
and  she  jumped  out  before  Gilbert  had  found  the  fare. 
When  he  opened  the  door  with  his  latchkey  she  ran 
upstairs  two  steps  at  a  time.  Mrs.  Mackenzie  and  her 
young  assistant  had  retired  to  bed  in  their  own  part 
of  the  house  downstairs.  Gilbert  turned  on  the  light 
in  their  sitting-room  and  sat  down  in  his  arm-chair. 
He  had  heard  Anne  slam  the  bedroom  door,  and 
decided  to  await  her  next  move.  He  read  an  article 


68  ANNE 

in  the  Spectator,  and  listened  intently.  He  could  not 
hear  her  moving  about. 

Gilbert's  knowledge  of  the  quarrels  of  married  life 
had  been  acquired  mainly  from  the  desultory  reading 
of  novels  and  magazines  on  railway  journeys,  and  on 
the  theories  thus  gleaned  he  proposed  to  practise. 
He  sat  on  reading  the  Law  Times  when  he  had 
finished  the  Spectator,  waiting  for  a  penitent  Anne 
to  steal  into  the  room  and  sue  for  pardon — that  was 
the  way  of  all  well-regulated  wives  in  all  the  novels 
he  could  recall  at  the  moment.  When  an  hour  passed 
without  bringing  any  sign  of  Anne,  penitent  or  im- 
penitent, his  memory  of  magazine  heroines  suggested 
another  solution  of  the  situation  :  she  had  possibly 
gone  to  bed  to  sob  herself  to  sleep.  He  looked  at  the 
clock  once  or  twice,  but  hardened  his  heart ;  if  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  the  proper  frame  of  mind 
and  come  to  him  and  apologise  for  her  foolishness 
he  would  not  go  to  her.  He  would  let  the  wrong- 
headed  little  sinner  cry  herself  to  sleep  :  it  was  what 
strong-minded,  firm  husbands  did  in  books,  and  if 
Anne  was  not  the  well-regulated  wife  of  romance  he 
was  determined  to  play  the  strong-minded,  firm  hus- 
band. At  twelve  o'clock  he  decided  that  Anne  had 
had  more  than  time  to  carry  out  her  part  of  the  pro- 
gramme, and  he  put  out  the  lights  and  opened  the 
bedroom  door,  very  cautiously  so  as  not  to  waken  her. 

But  the  room  was  light,  and  Anne  was  sitting  wide 
awake  and  fully  dressed  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire, 
reading.  She  didn't  look  up  from  her  book  until  he 
said,  with  sarcasm  to  cover  his  irritation  : 

"  Are  you  proposing  to  sit  up  all  night  ?  " 

"  I  can't  undo  my  frock,"  she  replied  in  a  very 
small,  cold,  hard  voice. 


ANNE  69 

The  explanation  was  so  unexpected,  unanswerable, 
and  disconcerting  that  it  brought  Gilbert  from  the 
realm  of  theory  and  romance  to  practical  domestic 
realities  with  a  jar  he  never  quite  forgot. 

"  Come  here  !  "  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  that  of 
a  nurse  with  a  naughty  child,  not  a  husband  with 
an  exasperating  wife.  Anne  came,  and  while  his 
fingers  wrestled  with  tiny  hooks  and  eyes  fairly  skil- 
fully, for  he  was  getting  used  to  her  trousseau-frocks, 
he  reflected  that  wives  in  books  must  either  have 
dresses  that  were  not  fastened  up  at  the  back,  or 
female  domestic  staffs  that  did  not  disappear  irre- 
vocably into  the  basement  at  ten  o'clock.  When  the 
fragile  pink  dress  was  unfastened  his  annoyance  had 
been  vanquished  by  a  tender  amusement  over  the 
situation,  and  he  touched  her  shoulder  with  his  lips. 
Then,  as  Anne  flushed,  he  put  his  arms  round  her 
waist,  and  she  turned  to  him  and  held  up  her  face. 
There  was  defiance  and  mutiny  in  her  eyes,  but  her 
sensitive  mouth,  that  was  still  sulky,  quivered 
pathetically.  At  that  moment  he  could  no  more  have 
said  a  harsh  word  to  anything  so  small  and  soft  and 
sweet  as  Anne  than  he  could  have  struck  her.  So 
their  quarrel  ended  in  silence  and  kisses  ;  and  Anne 
learned  that  she  could  disarm  Gilbert  without  sur- 
rendering one  inch  of  ground  herself,  which  was  not 
the  lesson  he  had  determined  to  teach  her. 

It  was  after  this  episode  that  she  quietly  set  to 
work  to  study  painting.  Somehow,  during  the  dinner 
at  the  Woodalls',  she  had  acquired,  from  a  silent  young 
man  who  was  a  fellow-sufferer  from  inability  to  follow 
the  political  conversation  with  intelligence,  the  in- 
formation that  a  certain  Benjamin  Tindale  was  the 
most  successful  member  of  a  wonderful  group  of 


70  ANNE 

artists  who  despised  the  Royal  Academy  and  exhibited 
pictures  in  the  New  Gallery  and  International  Exhi- 
bitions instead.  Anne's  ignorance  was  profoundly 
innocent.  She  did  not  venture  to  despise  the  Royal 
Academy  herself,  but  she  decided  that  any  artist 
who  was  sufficiently  great  to  be  able  to  look  down 
upon  such  a  ponderously  well-established  institution 
must  be  a  very  big  gun  indeed  and  might  be  amusing. 
So  she  went  to  Mr.  Benjamin  Tindale  and  asked  him 
to  take  her  as  a  pupil ;  and  as  that  grey-bearded 
giant  of  sixty  had  a  very  soft  corner  in  his  heart  for 
pretty  little  girls  of  seventeen  with  appealing  blue 
eyes,  he  overlooked  the  fact  that  he  demanded  a 
high  standard  of  ability  from  tyros  who  wished  to 
work  in  his  school.  He  made  an  exception  for  Anne, 
not  because  her  drawing  showed  promise,  for  at  this 
time  it  emphatically  did  not,  but  because  her  face 
was  so  alive  with  beseeching  earnestness  that  he 
was  afraid  her  eyes  would  fill  with  tears  if  he 
refused. 

If  determination  and  enthusiasm  always  counted 
as  much  as  successful  moralists  assure  their  disciples 
that  they  do,  Anne  ought  to  have  proved  to  be,  if  not 
a  great  artist,  a  successful  painter.  She  threw  herself 
into  her  work  like  a  small  and  earnest  gladiator  out 
to  slay  the  lions  in  her  path  for  the  glory  of  the  battle. 
Unfortunately  for  her  ambition,  although  she  had  an 
infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains,  she  showed  very 
little  talent,  except  for  cajoling  lenient  verdicts  on 
her  efforts  from  the  usually  stern  critic  in  whose  art 
school  she  had  established  herself.  But  she  worked 
hard,  and  enjoyed  herself  immensely.  She  wore  a 
soft,  untrimmed  black  felt  hat  like  a  Nonconformist 
minister,  short  full  skirts  when  short  full  skirts  were 


ANNE  71 

not  fashionable,  collarless  blouses  and  strange- 
coloured  neckties. 

But  while  her  fellow-students  were  dingy  and  un- 
tidy, and  wore  dull,  faded  garments,  she  improved 
on  the  style  by  wearing  her  strange  clothes  with  her 
smartest  Paris  shoes  and  stockings,  and  substituting 
bright,  clear  colours  for  the  dingy  greens  and  yellows 
the  other  students  affected.  She  looked  as  if  she  had 
stepped  out  of  an  illustration  in  some  children's  book 
of  fairy  tales.  Francesca,  making  a  flying  visit  to 
London  to  attend  the  annual  meeting  of  a  Suffrage 
Society,  met  her  small  sister-in-law  in  the  street  and 
protested  to  Gilbert  privately. 

"  You  oughtn't  to  encourage  the  child's  craze," 
she  said. 

"  I  assure  you  she  requires  no  encouragement 
whatever,"  he  replied.  "  I  suppose  she'll  get  tired 
of  it  in  time." 

"  But  it  is  so  exaggerated  ;  look  at  the  way  she 
dresses  !  What  does  she  look  like  ?  " 

"  Very  pretty,  when  you've  got  over  blinking  at 
her." 

Francesca  laughed,  but  shook  her  head. 

"  That  is  it.  Why  must  she  make  one  blink  at 
her  ?  Why  must  she  go  off  at  this  weird  tangent  and 
spend  her  days  in  studios  ?  " 

"  Totally  unexpected  effect  of  a  honeymoon  in 
Paris.  How  was  I  to  know  what  way  it  would  take 
her  ?  I'm  thanking  my  lucky  stars  it  is  something 
quiet.  Supposing  she'd  taken  it  into  her  head  she 
wanted  to  be  a  musician  and  had  insisted  upon  learn- 
ing the  fiddle  ?  She'd  have  practised  it  all  day  and 
all  night.  She  can't  do  anything  by  halves,  can't 
Anne." 


72  ANNE 

Francesca  was  an  earnest  subscriber  to  the  main 
tenets  of  the  new  faith  that  was  being  decorously 
proclaimed  by  pioneers  in  carefully  selected  drawing- 
rooms — the  faith  that  women  had  the  right  to  use 
their  own  judgment,  and  be  personally,  economically, 
and  politically  independent.  On  principle  she  agreed 
to  these  dogmas,  but  when  she  found  her  own  little 
sister-in-law  practising  the  creed,  not  because  she 
knew  anything  about  it  but  because  she  was  naturally 
wilful,  she  was  not  pleased.  And  as  it  was  no  use 
being  angry  with  Anne,  who  was  obviously  erring 
from  lack  of  sense  due  to  her  youth  and  inexperience, 
she  was  annoyed  with  Gilbert.  His  lazy,  good- 
tempered  query :  "  Well,  what  do  you  expect  me  to 
do  about  it  ?  Slap  her  ?  "  silenced  her ;  but  she  went 
to  her  suffrage  meeting  in  a  dissatisfied  mood,  and 
only  a  latent  sense  of  humour  kept  her  from  uttering 
the  doubts  in  her  mind  as  to  whether  it  wouldn't  be 
better  to  postpone  giving  women  independence  until 
men  had  acquired  enough  sense  to  see  they  didn't  do 
foolish  things,  and  whether  in  any  case  it  wouldn't 
be  desirable  to  extend  such  independence  only  to 
young  women  in  other  people's  families,  not  in  one's 
own. 


CHAPTER    VII 

JOHN  HALLIDAY  disapproved  very  strongly  of  Anne's 
artistic  pursuits  when  they  came  to  his  knowledge — 
not  that  he  minded  her  learning  to  paint,  but  he 
objected  to  her  associates  at  the  studio.  He  met  her 
in  the  King's  Road,  Chelsea,  one  morning  in  January, 
walking  with  a  thin  young  man  whom  he  afterwards 
described  as  "  a  revolting  mixture  of  a  French  apache, 
an  Italian  brigand,  and  the  lowest  type  of  Fabian 
Society  crank."  The  young  man,  whose  name  was 
Austin  Heddle,  wore  a  slouch  hat,  a  long  dark  cloak, 
and  a  large  black  stock  tied  in  a  bow  under  his  pointed 
shaven  chin.  He  had  long  straight  dark  hair,  keen 
eyes  set  too  close  together  in  a  thin  white  face,  and 
John  took  a  violent  dislike  to  him.  He  could  paint, 
had  a  clever  tongue,  and  a  taste  and  an  instinct  for 
what  was  unusual  in  art,  life,  and  literature.  Anne 
found  him  amusing,  and  was  flattered  by  his  atten- 
tions. She  invited  him  to  Bedford  Row  and  intro- 
duced him  to  Gilbert,  who  regarded  him  with  the 
benevolent  toleration  he  would  have  extended  to  a 
stray  mongrel  puppy  if  Anne  had  brought  any  such 
animal  home  with  her. 

John,  although  he  had  a  catholic  taste  in  acquaint- 
ances himself,  had  a  different  and  quite  intolerant 
standard  in  his  mind  for  Anne.  At  this  time  he  was 
living  in  lodgings  in  the  Euston  Road.  The  house 

73 


74  ANNE 

had  a  narrow  strip  of  front  garden  full  of  marigolds 
in  the  summer.  That  was  why  he  chose  it :  of  the 
gardens  next  door,  one  was  full  of  tombstones,  as  the 
owner  was  a  monumental  mason,  and  the  one  on  the 
other  side  was  mainly  occupied  by  a  large  board 
that  advertised  the  wholly  imaginary  comforts  that 
might  be  expected  in  the  house  behind  it  by  single 
gentlemen  who  had  one  shilling  and  sixpence  to  spend 
on  bed  and  breakfast,  and  the  desire  to  pass  the  night 
in  a  residence  whose  windows  were  neither  opened 
nor  washed.  John,  with  almost  empty  pockets,  in 
search  of  a  home,  had  eyed  the  marigolds  with 
pleasure.  Their  round  golden  faces  had  looked  so 
cheerful  and  so  honest,  between  the  probably  pious 
lies  on  the  grimy  tombstones  to  the  west  of  them, 
and  the  certainly  impious  lies  on  the  faded  board  to 
the  east  of  them,  that  he  had  gone  up  the  flagged 
path  towards  the  door  that  bore  the  legend  "  Rooms 
to  let "  on  a  card  in  the  fanlight.  The  card  reminded 
him  of  Lennox  Terrace  and  Anne,  and  he  had  taken 
the  rooms  in  an  absent-minded  way,  thinking  not  of 
their  cleanliness  nor  their  rent,  though  they  happened 
to  be  moderately  cheap  and  fairly  clean,  but  of  how 
much  he  was  going  to  miss  Anne  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  For  his  vague  day-dream  of  making  a  large 
income  quickly  and  easily  and  having  Anne  to  live 
with  him  had  deserted  him.  The  knowledge  that 
large  incomes  were  not  made  quickly  and  easily,  or 
that  he  was  not  going  to  be  the  sort  of  man  with  the 
knack  of  making  them  that  way,  came  to  him  as  an 
unpleasant  certainty  to  be  accepted  philosophically ; 
but  the  realisation  that  he  had  lost  Anne  was  a  blow 
that  he  could  not  face  so  calmly.  He  shrank  from 
facing  it  at  all  for  a  long  time,  consoling  himself  by 


ANNE  75 

imagining  all  sorts  of  fantastically  unlikely  incidents 
and  events  that  would  readjust  the  universe,  undo 
the  past,  and  land  Anne  back  on  his  hands  :  he 
deliberately  thought  of  it  in  those  words,  he  wanted 
Anne  "  back  on  his  hands  "  :  it  was  part  of  the 
mental  game  of  not  facing  things.  Somehow  some- 
thing would  happen  and  Anne  would  be  given  back 
to  him  again.  And  then,  when  nothing  dramatic 
happened,  he  admitted  to  himself  that  it  was  just  as 
well  while  he  was  making  his  way.  He  was  spending 
the  greater  part  of  his  days  getting  shown  out  of 
newspaper  offices,  and  the  greater  part  of  his  nights 
writing  short  stories  that  came  back  through  the  post 
with  the  fidelity  of  homing  pigeons.  When  Anne 
married  he  readjusted  his  dreams.  He  attempted 
quite  honestly  to  rejoice  over  the  marriage,  altruistic- 
ally because  a  good-looking,  good-tempered  husband 
with  an  adequate  income  and  an  assured  position 
seemed  desirable  possessions  for  his  protegee,  and 
selfishly  because  the  marriage  brought  Anne  to 
London.  He  struggled  for  weeks  between  a  passionate 
rebellion  against  the  idea  of  his  little  Anne  marrying 
at  all,  and  a  genuine  desire  to  extend  the  protection 
of  his  love  and  friendship  to  her  husband.  He 
realised  he  could  only  have  a  share  of  Anne  in  his  life 
by  making  room  for  Gilbert ;  so  he  made  room.  And 
in  these  reconstructed  dreams  he  saw  Gilbert  playing 
the  part  of  a  sort  of  masculine  and  indulgent  nursery 
governess  to  Anne  under  his  spiritual  and  mental 
guidance  and  direction.  He  extended  his  patronage 
to  Gilbert  under  the  happy  delusion  that  Gilbert 
would  desire  it  and  be  properly  grateful  for  his  help 
in  managing  Anne.  He  felt  baffled  and  rebuffed 
when  he  went  to  Bedford  Row  to  find  Gilbert  quite 


76  ANNE 

genially  but  unmistakably  prepared  to  patronise  him, 
and  in  no  obvious  need  of  his  advice  or  help  in  any 
way.  His  comfort  was  that  Anne  was  serenely 
happy. 

Her  friendship  with  Austin  Heddle  annoyed  him 
furiously  and  he  was  angry  with  Gilbert.  He  told 
himself  that  Gilbert  was  not  looking  after  Anne 
properly  if  he  allowed  her  to  associate  with  such  a 
fantastic  cad  ;  but  when  it  came  to  the  point  he  felt 
some  delicacy  about  informing  a  husband  of  five 
months  that  he  was  neglecting  his  wife.  He  tried  to 
inoculate  Anne  with  his  own  opinions  of  young 
Heddle,  only  to  find  that  his  views  interested  and 
amused  her,  but  influenced  her  not  at  all.  In  fact, 
she  was  evidently  pleased  that  he  took  the  matter 
seriously.  Gilbert  treated  everything  and  everybody 
connected  with  the  studio  as  a  very  mild  joke,  and, 
as  the  more  advanced  students  in  the  art  school 
treated  her  presence  there  as  a  joke,  John's  solemnity 
on  the  subject  soothed  her. 

One  Sunday  morning  in  the  early  spring,  when  a 
bright  sun  was  showing  London  how  grey  and  grimy 
a  thing  a  city  can  look  in  March,  and  a  soft  wind 
from  the  Surrey  hills  was  asking  London  why  it  didn't 
stir  a  little  and  give  the  earth  it  was  standing  on  a 
chance  to  breathe  and  to  send  forth  daisies  and 
primroses,  John  was  strolling  down  the  Euston  Road 
with  a  light  heart  and  two  guineas  in  his  pocket, — a 
surprise  two  guineas,  the  result  of  a  totally  un- 
expected lapse  on  the  part  of  an  editor  of  an  evening 
paper  who  had  accepted  some  verses,  printed,  and 
paid  for  them, — when  he  met  Gilbert ;  Gilbert  in  a 
Norfolk  suit  with  a  bag  of  golf-clubs  over  his 
shoulder. 


ANNE  77 

"  I'm  just  catching  the  eleven-thirty  for  Bushey, 
fresh  air  and  exercise,"  he  said. 

"  Where's  Anne  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  At  home  with  a  headache ;  she  wouldn't  come. 
Why  don't  you  go  along  and  look  her  up  ?  " 

"  But  if  she's  iU  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  not  ill — just  lazing."  He  hurried  off 
to  the  station,  and  John  glared  after  him  indignantly. 
To  marry  Anne — to  neglect  her — to  go  off  for  a  day's 
pleasure  and  leave  her  alone  ill !  Accusations  formed 
themselves  rapidly  in  his  mind  as  he  strolled  along 
to  Bedford  Row,  where  he  found  Anne  curled  up  on 
a  sofa  with  a  book,  eating  chocolates,  and  looking 
remarkably  well.  She  seemed  pleased  to  see  him. 

"  I  met  Gilbert.    He  said  you'd  a  headache." 

*'  I  haven't  a  headache.  I  just  felt  sick,"  said  Anne 
candidly,  "  and  I  couldn't  be  bothered  to  go  golfing. 
I'm  all  right  now." 

He  looked  at  her  wistfully  and  then  went  to  the 
window. 

"  It's  such  a  jolly  day,  won't  you  come  out  with  me 
somewhere  ?  " 

"  Where  ?    Not  if  it's  a  concert." 

"  No,  out  of  doors.  Look  here,  Anne,  I  know  of  a 
jolly  little  inn  near  Hendon.  Let's  drive  out  to  lunch 
there.  It  will  do  you  good." 

"  I'd  love  to  !  " 

He  had  expected  to  have  to  use  greater  persuasion, 
but  she  was  ready  in  two  minutes. 

In  those  days  the  Tube  had  not  been  built  and 
beyond  Hampstead  there  was  open  country,  fields 
and  hedges,  and  country  houses  standing  in  walled 
gardons  where  thrushes  and  blackbirds  sang  in  old 


78  ANNE 

trees.  The  elms  were  in  flower  and  the  sun  showed 
their  rounded  tops  red  against  the  blue  sky  ;  there 
were  glimpses  of  daffodils  in  the  gardens,  and 
hyacinths,  and  myriads  of  crocuses.  They  had  lunch 
at  a  square  white  inn  between  Hendon  and  Edgware, 
and  they  were  both  enchantingly  happy.  They  ate 
cold  chicken,  and  rhubarb  tart  and  cream,  in  a  long, 
low,  green-walled  room  whose  only  other  occupant 
or  decoration  was  a  plaster  pike  in  a  glass  case  ;  out- 
side the  open  windows  bees  hummed  about  some 
early  tulips  and  a  long  green  garden  stretched  down 
to  a  little  stream.  John  had  the  pleasure  of  telling 
Anne  about  his  poem  and  reading  it  to  her  : 

I  have  seen  Spring — a  slender  wistful  maiden 

In  the  wet  woods,  a  dryad  midst  the  trees. 

Then  the  hearts  of  the  old,  old  trees  did  throb  with  love, 

And  love  is  life,  and  they  stirred,  till  all  above 

In  the  ocean  of  air,  from  a  riot  and  mist  of  buds 

They  wrought  a  net  to  snare  the  faithless  breeze. 

I  have  seen  Spring  on  her  knees  with  her  fair  head  bowed, 

While  the  tears  from  her  dear  blue  eyes 

Fell  rain  on  the  breast  of  her  dead,  cold,  mother-friend, 

Earth, 

And  violets  grew  ;  for  what  is  death  is  birth, 
As  Earth  and  the  violets  know — 
Mother  Earth  and  her  babes  are  wise. 

I  have  seen  Spring  asleep  with  lilac  buds  in  her  hair, 

Pale  primrose  stars  kept  watch  about  her  bed  : 

But  the  Sun-god  saw  her  as  she  slept,  and  poured  his  gold 

Over  the  green  o'  the  fields,  a  wealth  untold 

Of  buttercups  ;   for  the  Sun-god  desired  the  maiden 

And  kissed  her  sleeping — then  she  woke,  and  fled. 

Another  poet  might  have  been  less  satisfied  with 
Anne's  admiration,  which  was  divided  equally 
between  his  cleverness  in  writing  it  and  his  cleverness 
in  getting  two  guineas  for  it ;  but  her  praise  was 


ANNE  79 

very  sweet  to  him.  They  discussed  books  and 
explored  each  other's  minds.  Anne  was  always  eager 
for  new  knowledge,  new  ideas  ;  the  hunger  of  her 
young  mind  was  undiscriminating. 

After  lunch  they  walked  in  the  garden  where  a 
moss-grown  path  bordered  by  early  spring  flowers, 
red  and  white  double  daisies,  wallflowers,  and  double 
daffodils,  led  to  a  wilder  part  beyond  a  thick  box- 
hedge  where  there  was  a  yellow  and  green  carpet  of 
celandine,  and  a  tangle  of  willow  bushes  budding 
into  soft,  round,  velvet-grey  catkins.  A  pink  almond 
tree  was  in  blossom,  and  Anne  reached  up  for  a  little 
spray  of  the  flowers.  Anne's  adorable  prettiness  as 
she  stood  under  the  tree  seemed  to  epitomise  the 
spring.  John's  heart  suddenly  beat  very  fast  and  he 
lost  control  over  it,  and  his  head.  All  the  morning 
he  had  been  weaving  a  fairy-tale  to  himself  in  which 
Gilbert's  imagined  neglect  of  Anne,  Anne's  youth, 
and  helpless  innocence,  and  daring  wilfulness,  and 
his  own  love  for  her,  and  his  desire  to  protect  her 
from  everything  and  everyone  in  the  world,  some- 
how led  to  a  romantic  happiness  warranted  to  last 
for  ever---only  in  the  fairy-tale  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  :  and  in  the  garden  his  arms 
moved  and  he  was  just  going  to  touch  her,  and  tell 
her  how  he  loved  her,  when  Anne,  who  had  been  very 
quiet  for  a  few  minutes,  suddenly  held  out  the  twig 
of  pink  blossom  she  had  picked,  and  said  : 

"  John,  will  you  be  my  baby's  godfather  ?  " 

His  hands  fell  to  his  side  and  his  heart  seemed 
to  stop  beating  as  if  he  had  pulled  it  down  with  a 
cord. 

"  Are  you  going  to  have  a  baby  ?  "  he  said  stupidly, 
slowly. 


80  ANNE 

"  I  shouldn't  ask  you  to  be  her  godfather  if  I 
weren't,"  retorted  Anne. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  .  .  ."  He  took  the  hand  that 
offered  him  the  almond  blossom  in  both  of  his.  He 
kissed  it — then  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
stooped,  and  very  gently  kissed  her  cheek. 

Anne  looked  at  him  curiously,  surprised  and 
touched,  and  a  little  embarrassed  by  his  emotion. 
John  pulled  himself  together  with  a  violent  effort 
that  left  him  feeling  suddenly  physically  cold. 

"  It  is  ripping  of  you  to  ask  me,"  he  stammered. 
"  I  shall  be  awfully  proud  of  a  godchild." 

They  were  both  rather  silent  for  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon.  John,  because  his  castles  in  the  air  were 
falling  down,  and  he  was  preoccupied  in  struggling 
to  evolve  new  ones  out  of  the  chaos,  and  Anne  was 
wondering  what  impulse  had  made  her  confide  in 
him. 

That  evening  when  she  and  Gilbert  were  sitting 
over  the  fire,  and  he  had  recapitulated  his  golf  score 
hole  by  hole,  and  she  had  told  him  of  her  expedition 
with  John,  she  suddenly  said,  rather  nervously  : 

"  I  asked  John  to  be  the  baby's  godfather." 

Gilbert  laid  down  his  cigarette  and  stared  at  her. 

Still  more  nervously  Anne  continued  : 

"  He  was  awfully  pleased — dear  old  John  !  " 

"  Dear  old  John  be  damned  !  "  said  her  astonished 
husband.  "  Do  you  mean  you're  going  to  have  a 
baby  ?  " 

"  Is  it  likely  I'd  ask  John  to  be  godfather  to  any- 
body else's  baby  ?  "  was  Anne's  answer.  Then,  as 
Gilbert  was  still  staring  at  her  with  either  wrath  or 
surprise,  or  both,  she  added  :  "  Don't  you  want  a 
baby  ?  " 


ANNE  81 

"  Darling,  of  course  I  want  a  baby  !  "  He  knelt  by 
her  and  put  his  arms  round  her  :  "  But  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you." 

"  But  why  did  you  tell  John  first  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — I  knew  he'd  be  so  pleased,  and  he 
was." 

The  baby  arrived  on  Anne's  eighteenth  birthday. 
John  had  been  invited  to  dinner,  and  when  he  got 
there  Francesca  opened  the  door  to  him  and  looked 
blankly  disappointed. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  were  the  doctor.  Do  go  in 
there  to  Gilbert  and  see  what  he  is  doing,  and  have 
some  dinner." 

Gilbert  was  industriously  taking  the  works  out  of 
the  dining-room  clock. 

"  The  beastly  thing  gains  a  bit,  I'm  just  having  a 
look  at  it,"  he  explained. 

"  Look  here,  old  chap,  you'll  never  get  it  all  back," 
said  John,  regarding  the  wheels  and  nuts  on  the 
table  with  scepticism.  "  Much  better  leave  it 
alone." 

"  May  as  well  have  it  all  out  and  make  a  good  job 
of  it.  I  say,"  his  voice  trembled  with  anxiety  and 
his  face  was  drawn  and  white,  "  Anne  is  bound  to  be 
all  right,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  Oh,  bound  to  be,"  said  John  sagely ;  then  with 
a  sharp  note  in  his  voice  he  asked  :  "  Why  ?  She's 
all  right,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so — only  they're  all  so  beastly  re- 
assuring." 

For  three  hours  two  helpless,  haggard  young  men 
carried  on  an  idiotic  conversation  in  which  they 
revealed  their  own  fears  by  the  very  strenuousness  of 


82  ANNE 

their  attempts  to  disguise  them  from  each  other,  and 
they  regaled  themselves  with  reassuring  platitudes 
that  soothed  without  convincing  them. 

While  Gilbert  so  wrought  with  the  works  of  the  dis- 
sected clock  that  it  never  kept  time  again,  John  walked 
to  the  open  window.  He  was  horribly  frightened  : 
frightened  for  Anne  facing  the  terrible  mysteries  of 
birth  and  death  alone  ;  she  was  so  young,  a  mere 
child — surely  such  things  weren't  for  little  girls  to 
face  ?  Mothers  should  be  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
robust  women  who  had  several  children  already — he 
was  picturing  some  of  the  fat,  untidy,  easy-going 
mothers  of  families  he  saw  shopping  in  the  Euston 
Road — he  wouldn't  be  terrified  of  them  bringing 
children  into  the  world.  Then  he  was  frightened  for 
himself,  frightened  of  losing  Anne.  If  he  lost  Anne, 
he  said  to  himself,  he  lost  everything  that  made  life 
desirable.  He  leaned  out  into  the  calm  August  night. 
Above  the  long,  broken  horizon-line  of  roofs  and 
chimneys  the  orange-glow  of  London  lights  blurred 
the  night  sky,  hiding  the  stars  :  but  to  the  east,  near 
the  zenith,  were  constellations  and  there  was  one 
bright  quivering  star,  flashing  red  and  blue  fiery 
points  of  light,  that  seemed  to  John's  agonising  soul 
less  remote  and  more  friendly  than  the  others.  He 
hadn't  prayed  much  since  he  had  said  his  prayers  as 
an  unhappy  little  boy  at  school,  when  he  had  prayed 
for  miracles  to  happen,  prayed  that  his  mother 
needn't  be  dead  any  more  ;  that  his  father  might  be 
changed  from  a  rough,  hard-working  country  surgeon 
into  a  rich  and  leisured  general  in  the  army  who 
would  come  to  fetch  him  away  from  school  on  a 
white  charger ;  and  that  Euclid  might  be  simplified 
by  the  elimination  of  right  angles  from  geometry  ; 


ANNE  83 

and  when  these  things  hadn't  happened  he  had 
somehow  lost  his  faith  in  prayer  very  much  in  the 
same  way  and  at  the  same  time  as  he  had  lost  his 
belief  in  fairies.  He  had  fallen  into  a  troubled,  half 
incredulous  atheism  at  the  age  of  fourteen  when  he 
had  discovered  Laing's  Problems  of  the  Future  in  his 
father's  library  and  devoured  it  one  Christmas  holiday. 
He  had  grown  out  of  this  as  he  found  that,  while  his 
brain  accepted  the  diet  it  fed  on,  his  imagination 
rebelled.  Now,  after  steering  an  erratic  and  un- 
piloted  course  through  every  philosophy  he  came 
across — Epictetus,  Descartes,  Hegel,  Kant,  Spinoza — 
he  had  found  the  calm  harbour  of  Neoplatonism  :  it 
had  appealed  to  him  as  the  intellectual  faith  of  noble 
men  ;  but  to-night  as  he  wrestled  with  cold,  naked 
fear  he  found  with  a  shock  of  dismay  that  his  philo- 
sophy failed  him.  The  transcendent,  majestic  God 
he  had  found  in  his  wise  books  couldn't  be  expected 
to  deflect  the  immutable  laws  of  His  Universe  for  the 
sake  of  anything  so  frail  and  insignificant  as  Anne, 
and  he  wanted  a  God  Who  would  care  and  Who 
would  work  miracles  if  necessary.  With  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  one  friendly  star  in  the  sky  he  prayed  in 
silence,  instinctively  using  the  formula  that  came 
mechanically  to  his  brain  from  the  habit  of  his  child- 
hood :  "  Our  Father  which  art  in  heaven,  please  let 
all  be  well  with  Anne.  I  don't  care  about  anything 
else  in  the  world.  If  You'll  only  let  her  live  and  be 
happy  I  don't  mind  about  anything  else  that  happens 
to  me.  I  don't  mind  about  fame  or  success.  I  don  t 
want  anything  else,  so  long  as  Anne's  all  right.  I 
thought  I  cared  about  my  work,  and  I  do  ;  but  I 
care  more  about  Anne.  I'll  give  up  anything,  let  me 
be  a  failure,  only  keep  Anne  safe  and  here.  Don't 


84  ANNE 

take  her  away.  I  don't  want  her  myself,  I  just  want 
her  here  in  the  world.  ..." 

Then  Francesca  put  a  tired,  happy  face  in  at  the 
door  and  said  : 

"  You've  a  little  son,  Gilbert,  and  you  may  see 
Anne  for  a  moment  presently.  She  wanted  a  girl, 
and  is  inclined  to  be  put  out  about  it." 

But  when  he  was  admitted  into  the  presence  of  his 
wife  and  sou,  Anne  had  developed  a  great  pride  in 
the  contents  of  the  little  bundle  of  flannel  by  her 
side.  When  he  leant  over  to  kiss  her,  she  said  : 

"  He's  a  very  nice  little  boy ;  but  next  time  it 
must  be  a  little  girl." 

"  Next  time  !    Good  heavens  !  " 

"  I  did  so  want  twins.  It  would  have  been  so  nice 
to  have  had  a  little  head  at  each  end  of  the  perambu- 
lator !  " 

The  nurse  cut  the  conversation  short  and  ushered 
him  out  of  the  room  with  almost  as  little  ceremony 
as  if  she  were  shooing  out  a  stray  chicken. 

Philip  was  a  little  thin  restless  baby  with  Anne's 
blue  eyes  and  Anne's  determination.  He  was  wel- 
comed by  Gilbert,  Francesca,  and  John  not  only  for 
his  own  sake  but  because  they  saw  in  him  an  instru- 
ment by  which  might  be  wrought  the  diversion  of 
Anne's  time  and  attention  from  the  studio.  Gilbert 
and  Francesca  both  advised  her  not  to  engage  a 
nurse  but  to  take  care  of  the  baby  herself ;  and  Anne, 
with  apparent  calmness  and  secret  misgivings, 
acquiesced  in  the  arrangement  which  left  her  at  the 
mercy  of  a  small  and  vociferous  tyrant  six  weeks  old 
of  whom  she  was  terrified. 

Pride,  sheer  obstinacy,  dislike  of  ridicule  kept 
her  wrestling  more  or  less  successfully  with  her 


ANNE  85 

son  for  three  weeks  after  the  departure  of  her 
own  nurse.  The  baby  had  strong  lungs,  a  firm 
will,  and  a  much  clearer  idea  of  what  was  good 
for  him  than  Anne  had,  so  she  gave  in  to  him  with 
nervous  alacrity,  until  one  afternoon  Gilbert  let 
himself  in  with  his  latchkey  to  find  his  home  filled 
with  sounds  of  despair  and  lamentation.  Phil,  in 
Anne's  arms,  was  shrieking  at  the  top  of  a  very 
efficient  voice,  while  Anne  was  sobbing  hysterically. 
Gilbert  with  a  spasm  of  serious  alarm  rushed  to  the 
bell  and  rang  for  help.  Anne  was  crying  too  much 
to  answer  his  frantic  questions.  When  breathless 
Mrs.  Mackenzie  appeared,  he  pointed  to  his  wife  and 
child,  and  said  desperately  : 

"  What's  wrong,  Mrs.  Mackenzie  ?  Is  the  baby 
dying  ?  " 

"  Never  heard  of  a  dying  baby  making  that  amount 
of  noise,"  said  Mrs.  Mackenzie  grimly.  She  took 
Phil  from  his  unprotesting  mother  and  rocked  him 
in  her  arms,  patting  him  heavily  on  the  back.  The 
quality  of  the  baby's  shrieks  changed,  the  undiluted 
unreasoning  rage  and  despair  in  his  voice  turned  to 
a  note  of  indignant  self-pity  and  reproach,  as  if  he 
found  in  Mrs.  Mackenzie  a  sympathetic  confidante 
and  was  satisfied  to  pour  out  a  long  list  of  grievances 
and  complaints. 

"  He's  sleepy,  poor  lamb,"  said  Mrs.  Mackenzie  as 
she  bore  him  away.  The  receding  cries  grew  more 
and  more  composed,  until  in  about  two  minutes  they 
ceased,  and  Gilbert  turned  to  Anne  : 

"  He's  been  crying  for  two  hours  !  "  she  sobbed, 
"  and  I  couldn't  stop  him." 

"  But  whatever  is  the  matter  ?  "  He  sat  down 
beside  her  on  the  sofa  and  lifted  her  on  to  his  knee. 


86  ANNE 

"  I  don't  know — he's  a  dreadful  baby  !  " 

He  petted  and  comforted  her,  and  as  she  stopped 
crying  she  said  defiantly  : 

"  I  don't  like  babies  !  They're  so  little  and  diffi- 
cult, and  they've  no  manners,  and  they're  always 
being  sick.  And  it  is  so  ungrateful  of  him  to  be  good 
with  Mrs.  Mackenzie  and  beastly  to  me  !  I  do  every- 
thing I  can  to  please  him,  and  he's  never  satisfied." 

Gilbert  debated  with  himself  whether  Anne's  need 
was  sympathy  or  reproaches.  The  result  of  some 
minutes'  reflection  was  a  very  careful  attempt  on  his 
part  to  imbue  her  with  some  orthodox  views  on  the 
ideal  relationship  of  mother  and  child.  He  thought 
he  was  succeeding,  and  that  she  was  taking  the 
lecture  very  well,  when  a  little  sigh  caused  him  to 
look  down  into  the  face  on  his  shoulder.  Anne  was 
fast  asleep. 

The  next  day  Gilbert  requested  Francesca  to  find 
an  experienced  nurse,  and  a  house  agent  to  discover 
a  suitable  house,  for  there  was  no  nursery  at  Bedford 
Row.  Francesca  recommended  Hampstead  as  a 
neighbourhood.  She  said  there  would  be  good  air 
for  Phil,  and  did  not  refer  to  its  remoteness  from  the 
studio  ;  neither  did  Anne  :  but  the  only  house  that 
satisfied  her  and  that  they  chose  eventually  was  in 
Chelsea. 

Phil  remained  the  one  unconquerable  subject  in 
her  realm.  She  adored  him,  but  could  not  manage 
him.  Francesca,  who  was  being  drawn  further  into 
the  political  whirlpool  of  the  suffrage  movement, 
came  more  frequently  to  London,  and  deplored  the 
fact  than  Anne  left  Phil  to  the  nurse  and  divided  her 
time  between  her  house  and  the  studio.  Gilbert  was 
reconciled  to  it,  and  said  : 


ANNE  87 

"  Why  not  ?  Anne  can't  deal  with  him  and  nurse 
can  ;  it's  what  she's  paid  for.  And  the  studio  keeps 
Anne  out  of  mischief." 

"  Does  it  ?  "    Francesca  spoke  doubtfully. 

"  Yes ;  if  she's  messing  about  with  chalk  and 
things  there,  she  isn't  wanting  to  paint  cornflowers 
all  over  my  dressing-room  wall." 

"  Cornflowers  ?  " 

"  They're  blue,  aren't  they  ?  Anyway,  whatever 
it  was  she  was  after,  every  blessed  thing  was  getting 
smothered  in  blue  paint.  I  put  my  foot  down  and 
she  got  in  one  of  her  furies.  So  for  mercy's  sake  let 
her  play  about  at  the  studio.  That's  what  art  schools 
are  there  for,  to  keep  kids  like  Anne  out  of  mischief." 

Privately,  Francesca  thought  that  art  schools  were 
poor  devices  for  the  purpose.  She  had  occasional 
glimpses  of  her  sister-in-law's  associates  there.  To 
Francesca  they  seemed  to  be  selfish,  conceited  young 
people,  intellectual  snobs,  artistic  cranks  and 
hedonists.  She  regretted  Anne's  association  with 
them,  feared  that  she  could  acquire  nothing  but 
wrong-headed  moral  ideas  and  violent  opinions.  Anne 
was  so  childish,  her  mind  seemed  so  unformed,  that 
Francesca  would  have  chosen  her  friends  for  her  with 
great  care  if  she  had  had  the  power  to  wean  Anne 
from  the  studio.  Only  gradually  did  she  realise  that 
these  studio  acquaintances  of  Anne's  had  no  in- 
fluence upon  her  at  all ;  in  fact,  her  attitude  to  the 
world  at  this  period  of  her  life  was  something  like 
that  of  a  child  at  the  Zoo.  She  walked  along  her 
chosen  path,  as  if  other  people  were  strange  animals 
in  cages.  She  regarded  them  with  healthy  interest 
and  amusement,  admiration  or  curiosity,  and  passed 
on  her  own  way. 


88  ANNE 

Franceses  and  John,  both  watching  from  the 
distance  of  frequent  intervals,  each  decided  that  the 
marriage  had  turned  out  well.  Anne  and  Gilbert 
were  very  good  and  very  happy,  and  Phil  was  very 
naughty  and  very  happy.  Francesca  gave  more  of 
her  mind  and  time  to  the  suffrage  movement.  John 
began  writing  a  play,  and  went  less  often  to  Chelsea  ; 
he  began  to  feel  he  wasn't  wanted.  Anne  only  wanted 
Gilbert  and  Phil. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

WHEN  Phil  was  three  years  old  he  got  measles,  and 
Anne  caught  it  too,  and  when  they  were  better  the 
doctor  advised  Gilbert  to  take  them  both  to  the  sea- 
side. Gilbert  hated  English  seaside  places.  Hitherto 
Phil  and  his  nurse  had  been  sent  to  Francesca  every 
summer  while  Gilbert  and  Anne  went  abroad.  How- 
ever, the  doctor  had  a  very  poor  opinion  of  foreign 
places  as  health  resorts  for  sick  British  children,  and 
he  recommended  the  golf  course  at  North  Berwick  ; 
so  Gilbert  took  rooms  at  the  Marine  Hotel  and  trans- 
ferred his  family  there  for  a  month. 

The  hotel  was  full,  but  they  were  given  two  large 
adjoining  rooms.  The  second  morning  Gilbert  ran 
upstairs  after  breakfast  to  hurry  Anne,  who  had  gone 
to  fetch  her  jersey  and  not  returned.  She  was  not  in 
their  room,  and  he  heard  her  from  the  room  next 
door  calling  him  in  a  scared  voice.  He  opened  the 
communicating  door  and  found  the  nurse,  dressed  to 
go  out,  with  her  bonnet  awry,  clinging  to  the  ward- 
robe breathing  heavily,  while  Anne  timidly  offered 
her  a  glass  of  water. 

"  Gilbert,  do  send  for  a  doctor !  I  am  afraid 
nurse  is  ill.  She  looks  so  funny,  and  can't  talk 
plainly.  Do  you  think  she  is  going  to  have  a 
paralytic  fit  ?  " 

He  looked  at  the  woman  in  concern,  approached 

89 


90  ANNE 

nearer  than  Anne  had  ventured,  and  then  turned  on 
Anne  in  contemptuous  indignation. 

"  Can't  you  see  the  woman  is  drunk  ?  "  he  enquired 
angrily. 

"  Nurse  drunk  ?  " 

"  Yes,  drunk  as  a  bargee  !  This  is  a  nice  thing  to 
happen  !  Has  she  ever  done  it  before  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.    Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Am  I  sure  ?  Not  that  you  know  of !  What  a 
helpless  little  imbecile  you  are  !  You  might  be  Phil's 
age.  And  where's  he  ?  " 

Phil  was  under  the  washing-stand,  quietly  polishing 
shoes  with  a  cake  of  pink  soap. 

"  Take  him  out,"  said  Gilbert.  "  I'll  deal  with  this 
woman." 

Anne  was  so  relieved  not  to  be  called  upon  to  deal 
with  the  nurse  herself  that  she  obeyed  meekly, 
although  she  resented  the  censure  implied  by  Gilbert's 
irritation.  It  wasn't  her  fault  that  the  nurse  was 
drunk  !  She  always  had  been  in  awe  of  nurse  when 
she  was  sober,  she  was  terrified  of  her  in  her  present 
condition.  She  took  Phil  on  to  the  sands,  and  kept 
him  there  for  two  hours.  Then  she  ventured  back 
to  the  hotel  to  find  out  what  had  happened.  Gilbert 
was  congratulating  himself  upon  having  dealt  with 
the  situation  in  a  masterly  way,  and  had  recovered 
his  temper. 

"  I  have  sent  her  away  ;  got  her  out  of  the  hotel. 
Given  her  her  ticket  back  to  London  and  a  month's 
wages.  The  chambermaid  packed  her  things.  It 
sobered  her  enough  for  her  to  catch  the  train.  I 
suppose  you  can  look  after  Phil  yourself  for  the  time 
being  ?  " 

Anne  supposed   so  too,   with  private   misgivings 


ANNE  91 

which  she  was  too  offended  to  confide  in  Gilbert,  even 
if  she  had  not  been  too  proud  to  admit  that  she  was 
invariably  defeated  in  contests  with  her  son.  She 
looked  after  him  for  the  rest  of  the  day  with  a  success 
achieved  mainly  by  means  of  new  toys  from  every 
toy  shop  in  High  Street,  including  a  large  tin  engine 
upon  which  he  had  set  his  heart  and  soul. 

"  You'll  be  a  good  boy  if  I  buy  it,  won't  you  ?  " 
She  bargained  with  a  weakness  which  Phil  measured 
with  the  accuracy  of  his  years. 

"  I  are  a  velly  good,  kind  boy,"  he  assured  her. 
"  If  I  met  a  lion  and  a  tiger  and  vey  wanted  to  eat 
me,  I  wouldn't  kill  vem  wif  a  pickaxe.  In  course  I 
wouldn't,  not  if  vey  was  hungry  poor  old  lions  and 
tigers.  I'd  give  vem  a  likkle  piece  of  bread  and 
butter." 

Having  issued  this  liberal  draft  on  his  charity  to 
meet  the  unlikely  claims  of  hypothetical  wild  beasts, 
Phil  felt  his  conscience  was  at  rest  and  that  he  was 
at  liberty  to  take  full  and  blissful  advantage  of  his 
mother's  incapacity  to  deal  with  him. 

He  demanded,  and  obtained,  permission  to  suck 
the  soap  as  his  price  for  being  bathed,  insisted  upon 
eating  biscuits  while  he  said  his  prayers,  and  upon 
having  all  his  toys  on  a  chair  by  his  cot  so  that  he 
could  reach  them  in  the  night.  Anne  never  lost  her 
temper  with  Phil ;  he  was  so  small  and  so  strange 
that  she  conceded  every  point  because  she  did  not 
understand  their  significance,  and  he  so  evidently 
did. 

She  was  rather  a  silent  companion  at  dinner  ;  she 
was  still  brooding  over  Gilbert's  injustice  in  blaming 
her  for  the  nurse's  insobriety — she  hadn't  made  the 
woman  drunk  !  He  thought  she  was  sulking  because 


92  ANNE 

the  charge  of  the  child  tired  and  irked  her  ;  and  he 
vaguely  felt  that  she  was  ultimately  responsible  for 
the  domestic  catastrophe — surely  it  was  the  plain 
duty  of  a  wife  and  mother  to  engage  and  retain  sober 
servants  ?  They  carefully  avoided  referring  to  the 
contentious  subject,  and  Anne  went  to  bed  early  in 
Phil's  room. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  Gilbert  was  awakened 
by  strange  sounds  from  the  next  room  ;  first,  Phil's 
shrill  voice  arguing,  and  Anne  protesting,  remon- 
strating ;  then  a  loud,  rattling  thump  of  something 
large  and  made  of  tin  falling  out  of  bed.  This  was 
followed  by  a  wail  from  Phil  which  turned  into  a 
muffled,  half-smothered  roar.  Gilbert  looked  at  his 
watch  ;  it  was  four  a.m.  He  waited  impatiently,  to 
give  Anne  a  chance  of  restoring  peace.  The  roar 
ceased,  and  Gilbert  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow  again  ; 
but  after  three  minutes  the  silence  was  again  broken 
by  a  loud,  sharp,  metallic  noise  of  hammering,  and 
then  came  a  crash.  Gilbert  jumped  out  of  bed  and 
opened  the  communicating  door. 

"  What  on  earth  is  this  infernal  noise  ?  " 

He  switched  on  the  light  and  beheld  Phil  sitting 
up  in  Anne's  bed  like  a  fair,  ruffle-haired  little  angel 
in  pink  pyjamas,  his  countenance  more  innocent 
than  that  of  any  painted  cherub.  Anne  was  also  sit- 
ting up,  and  with  her  flushed  face  framed  with  two 
long  plaits  she  looked  not  much  bigger  nor  much 
older  than  Phil ;  but  she  looked  distinctly  guilty. 

"  Phil  would  come  into  my  bed,"  she  explained  ; 
"I  let  him,  to  keep  him  quiet,  but  he  brought  his 
engine  and  a  lump  of  plasticine  and  the  soap-dish 
with  him.  I  couldn't  have  the  plasticine  in  bed,  it 
is  horrid,  so  messy  !  nor  the  engine,  it  is  so  hard  and 


ANNE  93 

uncomfortable,  but  when  I  pushed  them  out  he 
cried,  so  I  let  him  have  the  soap -dish  to  keep  him 
quiet.  Then  he  hammered  with  it  on  the  brass  rail 
and  smashed  it !  And  the  bed  is  full  of  broken  china 
now  !  " 

"  Your  idea  of  amusing  the  child  seems  to  be  to 
let  him  smash  up  the  hotel !  I  wonder  you  haven't 
woken  the  whole  place  in  your  attempts  to  keep  him 
quiet !  Why  the  devil  did  you  give  him  the  soap- 
dish  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  give  it  to  him,  he'd  got  it." 

Gilbert  picked  Phil  up  and  put  him  into  his  cot. 

"  Now  you  lie  still,  you  little  beggar,  and  go  to 
sleep." 

"  I  want  Jimmy,"  retorted  Phil. 

"  Who's  Jimmy  ?  "  demanded  Gilbert  helplessly. 

"  It  is  his  horrid  fur  monkey.    Do  find  it  for  him." 

Gilbert  found  it  under  the  bed,  and  tossed  it  to 
his  small  son.  Then  he  picked  up  Anne  from  among 
the  shattered  remains  of  the  soap-dish  as  easily  as 
he  had  lifted  Phil,  and  put  her  into  her  own  bed  in 
the  next  room.  He  went  back  to  threaten  or  cajole 
Phil  into  silence,  for  he  was  beginning  to  wail : 

"  I  want  my  mummy  !   I  want  my  mummy  !  " 

"  You  can't  have  her,  old  chap  !  Poor  mummy 
can't  sleep  in  a  bed  full  of  broken  china ;  you 
shouldn't  have  broken  the  soap-dish."  As  this  line 
of  argument  was  obviously  unconvincing,  Gilbert 
added  firmly,  "  You've  had  mummy  a  long  time, 
now  I  want  her." 

The  straightforward  selfish  claim  Phil  could  appre- 
ciate ;  he  hesitated  and  attempted  to  bargain. 

**  I'll  have  mummy,"  he  suggested,  "  and  you  can 
take  ve  pillow  and  pretend  it's  mummy." 


94  ANNE 

"  If  you  don't  shut  up  and  go  to  sleep,"  Gilbert 
threatened,  "  I'll  spank  you  !  " 

"  I'm  your  dear  likkle  boy  !  "  said  Phil.  "  Isn't 
you  very  pleased  wif  me  ?  I  wants  you  to  stay 
wif  me  !  " 

"  I'll  stay  with  you  till  you're  asleep  again,  if  you'll 
hurry  up  about  it." 

Gilbert  shivered  by  the  cot,  patting  the  little 
shoulder  for  five  minutes.  Then  Phil  fell  asleep,  and 
Anne  was  asleep  too. 

Anne  was  so  tired  that  she  slept  till  eight  o'clock. 
When  she  woke  she  was  conscious  of  a  suspiciously 
peaceful  silence.  Gilbert  had  gone  out  to  bathe,  and 
there  was  no  sound  of  Phil  from  the  next  room.  She 
jumped  out  of  bed  and  ran  to  the  open  door.  The  room 
was  empty,  but  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  was  a 
small  pink  heap,  Phil's  little  pyjamas.  There  was 
nowhere  in  the  room  for  him  to  hide,  and  the  further 
door  was  ajar.  She  heard  a  little  squeal  of  delight 
from  the  passage.  She  thrust  her  bare  feet  into 
bedroom  slippers  and  looked  out  into  the  corridor  just 
in  time  to  see  Phil,  without  a  shred  of  clothing  on, 
scamper  round  the  corner.  She  snatched  up  her  blue 
dressing-gown  and  pursued  him. 

Anne's  one  idea  was  to  retrieve  Phil  somehow 
before  Gilbert  returned.  She  ran  along  the  passage 
but  the  child  had  disappeared,  and  she  glanced 
despairingly  at  the  avenue  of  closed  doors.  Into 
which  room  had  Phil  adventured  ?  She  felt  too  shy 
to  knock  at  them  all  in  turn.  It  never  occurred  to 
her  to  delegate  her  quest  to  a  chamber-maid.  She 
passed  slowly  and  reluctantly  along  the  passage, 
listening  intently  for  Phil's  voice,  and  at  last  she 
heard  him  chattering  away  behind  one  of  the  closed 


ANNE  95 

doors  as  if  he  had  found  a  sympathetic  audience. 
A  pair  of  slim,  high-heeled  shoes  on  the  mat  gave  her 
courage  to  knock — at  least  he  had  gone  into  a  woman's 
room.  A  voice  said,  "Come  in,"  and  Anne,  feeling 
very  shy,  opened  the  door  and  said  :  "  I'm  so  sorry." 
Then  she  stopped,  for  there  was  Phil,  naked  and 
unashamed,  standing  by  the  bedside  of  a  strange 
woman,  singing  : 

"  If  I  planted  a  likkle  seed  of  love 
In  the  garden  of  your  heart." 

"  Come  in  !  "  said  the  stranger,  as  she  saw  Anne 
hesitating  on  the  threshold.  "  I  call  this  really 
friendly  !  Are  there  any  more  of  you  ?  Your  little 
brother  is  just  too  sweet." 

"  He's  not  my  little  brother,"  explained  Anne, 
"  I'm  his  mother  !  and  I'm  awfully  sorry  he's  been 
so  naughty." 

Anne,  with  her  hair  in  two  long,  thick  pigtails  and 
her  straight  blue  kimono,  looked  like  a  child,  and  the 
woman  stared  at  her  curiously. 

"  His  mother  ?  I'm  sorry  !  but  you  look  about 
twelve  years  old.  Must  you  take  him  away  ?  " 

Anne  captured  Phil,  apologised  for  him,  and 
carried  him  back,  trying  to  stifle  him,  for  he  began  to 
sing  :  "  My  dear  likkle  girlie,  girlie."  Outside  her 
bedroom  door  she  ran  into  Gilbert. 

**  Now  what  are  you  two  kids  doing  ?  "  he  enquired. 
When  he  heard  her  hurried  version  of  Phil's  escapade, 
he  said  grimly  : 

"  No  wonder  his  nurse  took  to  drink  !  I  shall  get 
another  from  Edinburgh,  and  engage  her  to  look  after 
you  both — otherwise  we  shall  be  getting  turned  out 
of  the  hotel." 


96  ANNE 

At  breakfast  Anne  saw  the  woman  whose  room 
they  had  invaded  come  into  the  coffee-room,  and 
feeling  shy,  she  busied  herself  over  Phil's  boiled  egg. 
Just  as  she  passed  near  their  table  Phil  remarked,  in 
the  high  treble  voice  he  only  used  when  he  was  feeling 
particularly  virtuous,  and  which  carried  easily  over 
the  whole  dining-room  : 

"  If  I  found  a  chicken  in  my  egg  I  wouldn't  eat  it, 
I'd  keep  it  for  a  likkle  pet." 

His  new  friend  laughed,  and  paused  by  his  chair  : 

"  Well,  if  I  find  a  chicken  in  my  egg  I  shall  know 
what  to  do  with  it,  I  shall  give  it  to  you." 

She  smiled  at  Anne,  who  explained  to  Gilbert : 

"  This  is  the  lady  the  dreadful  child  ran  away  to 
this  morning." 

"  And  she's  got  pink  wibbons  in  her  nighty-gown  !  " 
was  Phil's  contribution  to  the  courtesies  of  the 
moment. 

"  I  can  only  apologise  for  my  family,"  said  Gilbert. 
"  And  assure  you  that  I'm  catching  the  first  train  to 
Edinburgh  to  engage  a  nurse.  Ours  failed  us  yes- 
terday." 

"  I  think  your  family  is  too  sweet  to  need  any 
apologies.  And  surely  you  are  Mr.  Gilbert  Trevor  ?  I 
recognise  your  likeness  from  a  portrait  in  our  house. 
We  are  your  tenants  at  Crane  Hall,  I  am  Mrs.  Dalliac." 

The  acquaintanceship  developed  into  friendship. 
Gilbert  found  a  staid,  placid  Scots  nurse,  who  took 
charge  of  Phil  with  a  gentle  but  firm  hand,  and  Anne 
was  free  to  enjoy  herself.  Mrs.  Dalliac  was  a  warm- 
hearted, sensible  woman,  who  knew  what  she  wanted 
and  was  accustomed  to  get  it  without  much  trouble. 
She  took  a  great  fancy  to  Anne,  and  swept  away  her 
shyness  with  kindly,  high-handed  methods.  She  was 


ANNE  97 

about  twelve  years  older  than  Anne,  tall,  dark,  good- 
looking,  and  elegantly  dressed.  At  the  end  of  a  week 
she  was  calling  Anne  by  her  Christian  name,  and 
telling  her  how  to  do  her  hair.  Anne  responded  shyly 
and  more  slowly  ;  but  she  had  gained  self-confidence 
since  her  marriage,  and  Juliet  Dalliac  gave  her  more. 

"  Why,  child,  with  those  glorious  eyes  and  your 
lovely  hair  you'd  be  a  regular  little  beauty  if  you 
only  knew  it." 

Anne  blushed  and  laughed. 

"  It's  much  better  you  should  hear  it  from  me 
than  from  men,"  remarked  Mrs.  Dalliac.  "  There  I 
go,  you  seem  such  a  child  I'm  always  forgetting  you're 
married.  Doesn't  your  husband  tell  you  how  pretty 
you  are  ?  " 

"  He  likes  me,"  said  Anne  naively,  "  but  he  says 
I'm  a  vain  monkey  as  it  is." 

"  My  brother  says  you're  like  a  Greuze  picture." 

Whereupon  Anne  took  an  immediate  liking  for 
Lawrence  Ackroyd,  K.C.,  M.P.,  that  was  the  begin- 
ning of  his  infatuation  for  her,  and  of  her  initiation 
into  the  arts  and  joys  of  serious  flirtation.  So  far  in 
her  life  she  had  been  quite  content  to  flirt  with 
Gilbert,  or  Phil,  or  Francesca,  or  the  cook,  or  anybody 
whom  she  wished  to  conciliate  at  the  moment ;  but 
the  chivalrous  and  undisguised  admiration  of  the 
grave,  middle-aged  man  gave  her  a  new  experience, 
and  Anne  welcomed  such  new  experiences. 

Lawrence  Ackroyd,  a  bachelor  of  forty-five,  was 
an  eminent  man  in  his  own  profession,  and  the  member 
for  a  London  constituency.  He  came  to  North  Berwick 
tired  out  after  a  strenuous  session  and  an  arduous 
case  in  the  Divorce  Court.  The  clay  of  intrigue, 
harshness,  unhappiness,  and  selfishness  in  which  he 


98  ANNE 

had  dug  for  the  roots  of  truth  and  justice  had  wearied 
him.  Instinctively  he  had  come  North  in  search  of 
sea,  strong  salt  winds,  and  the  soothing  influence  of 
solitary  rounds  of  golf  on  smooth  green  turf  by  the 
grey  shore.  It  annoyed  him  to  find  in  the  hotel 
London  people  he  knew,  all  anxious  to  congratulate 
him  upon  his  case  and  to  talk  scandal  or  golf.  Then 
his  sister  introduced  him  to  Anne.  Anne  had  not  read 
the  case,  played  golf  more  badly  than  hitherto  he  had 
believed  possible,  and  was  not  interested  in  politics. 
These  three  novelties  refreshed  him  ;  she  was  shy, 
younger  than  any  woman  he  had  ever  met,  and 
unspoilt.  He  had  never  seen  more  beautiful  eyes 
nor  prettier  hands  and  feet.  He  found  himself  watch- 
ing her  as  one  watches  a  charming  child,  from  mere 
idle  aesthetic  pleasure.  Then  he  liked  her  voice, 
which  was  soft  and  gentle,  and  he  sought  her  out  to 
talk  to  her,  the  first  time  as  a  reason  for  avoiding 
conversation  with  anyone  else.  When  he  found  she 
was  intelligent  he  drew  her  out  for  the  amusement  of 
hearing  what  anything  so  artless  thought  of  the  world. 
In  a  few  days  he  was  quite  openly  worshipping  her, 
and  Anne  was  accepting  his  adoration  as  innocently 
as  it  was  offered.  He  insisted  upon  coaching  her  in 
golf,  and  he,  one  of  the  best  amateur  players  in  Eng- 
land, spent  hours  on  the  Ladies'  Links  teaching  Anne 
how  to  use  her  clubs. 

His  sister  laughed  at  him,  and  said,  "  If  I  were  that 
child's  husband  I  should  take  her  away  before  the 
flirtation  goes  any  further." 

He  frowned  impatiently. 

"  Don't  accuse  me  of  the  vulgarity  of  flirtation. 
If  you  knew  how  I  loathed  the  idea  .  .  .  besides, 
little  Mrs.  Trevor  isn't  that  sort  of  woman." 


ANNE  99 

His  sister  opened  her  brown  eyes  very  wide. 

"  What  sort  of  woman  ?  Any  sort  of  woman  can 
flirt  if  she's  put  to  it,  and  I'm  sure  Anne  flirted  with 
her  nurse  before  she  either  walked  or  talked." 

"  Ah,  well,  perhaps  I've  grown  to  attach  an  ugly 
meaning  to  an  innocent  word." 

"  Anne  is  an  innocent  baby,  but  she'd  be  half- 
witted if  she  didn't  know  she'd  got  eyes  that  could 
coax  the  barbs  off  a  wire  fence." 

"  It  is  her  mouth  that  is  her  really  appealing 
feature."  Then,  in  reply  to  a  mischievous  smile,  he 
explained,  "  At  the  Bar  I've  got  the  habit  of  watching 
people's  mouths,  they  are  the  betraying  feature.  I 
find  women  and  clean-shaven  men  make  the  best 
witnesses.  Some  types  of  pretty  women  have  lips 
that  make  a  man  wonder  whether  she'd  let  him  kiss 
her  when  he  looks  at  them.  Now  Mrs.  Trevor  is  not 
that  type,  her  lips  make  you  wonder  what  they  are 
going  to  say." 

"  You've  got  it  very  badly !  "  said  his  sister  dis- 
respectfully. "  Any  way,  she's  a  darling,  and  I'm 
going  to  ask  them  to  come  to  stay  when  we  get  back." 

"  Do.  Trevor  seems  a  very  good  fellow,"  he  replied 
imperturbably.  "  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  junior  he 
is  ?  I  must  try  to  put  some  work  in  his  way." 

Gilbert  was  rather  proud  of  Anne's  conquest.  He 
teased  her  privately,  but  he  reasoned  that  as  she  was 
safely  in  love  with  him  there  was  no  harm  in  her 
attracting  other  men,  especially  if  they  were  eminently 
respectable  counsel ;  and  he  was  careful  not  to  dis- 
courage a  friendship  with  one  who  so  plainly  could 
be  of  much  use  to  him  in  his  profession. 

Lawrence  Ackroyd  never  made  love  to  her.  He 
was  tired,  and  she  refreshed  him.  If  she  had  been 


100  ANNE 

ten  years  younger  he  would  have  made  castles  in  the 
sand  on  the  beach  for  her  amusement  and  his  own. 
The  first  time  he  took  her  round  the  big  links  after 
a  week's  instruction  he  paused  on  the  way  home  and 
made  her  rest. 

"  Aren't  I  a  nuisance  ?  "  she  enquired.  "  Wouldn't 
you  rather  play  with  someone  who'd  give  you  a  better 
game  ?  " 

He  smiled,  for  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that,  as 
far  as  golf  went,  she  was  giving  him  no  game  at  all. 

"  I'd  rather  go  round  the  links  with  you  than  with 
anyone  in  North  Berwick.  Will  you  come  round 
again  to-morrow  morning  ?  Or  is  it  selfish  to  mono- 
polise you  again  ?  " 

*'  Oh  no.  I'd  like  to.  Gilbert  won't  want  me.  I 
don't  play  well  enough  for  him." 

"  You're  improving  wonderfully.  You're  a  capital 
pupil,  and  a  most  kind  companion." 

"  Am  I  kind  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  let  me  forget  there  are  such  places  as 
Law  Courts  and  Houses  of  Parliament." 

"  I  believe  that  if  I  were  a  lawyer  I  shouldn't 
want  to  forget  them ;  I  should  be  so  interested  in 
it  all." 

"  You  might  be  till  you  were  as  tired  of  it  as  I  get. 
I  sometimes  feel  that  I  am  just  part  of  the  price 
civilisation  has  to  pay  for  its  failures." 

"  You  mean  that  people  don't  go  to  lawyers  till 
they've  made  a  muddle  of  everything  themselves  ?  " 
reflected  Anne.  "  But  doesn't  it  feel  nice  to  put  things 
right  ?  " 

"  Does  one  put  things  right  ?  "  he  said.  "  My  last 
«ase  has  meant  the  wreck  of  a  marriage  that  was  once 
as  happy  as  yours  I  dare  say." 


ANNE  101 

"  But  you  won  your  case  ?  "  she  replied  :  she  had 
gleaned  this  from  Gilbert. 

"  It  might  have  been  better  for  my  client  if  I'd 
lost  it." 

"  But  not  better  for  you." 

He  laughed.  Her  simplicity  soothed  him  ;  a  more 
sophisticated  young  woman  would  have  supplied  the 
sympathy  he  sought. 

"  Yours  is  the  philosophy  of  youth  and  health  and 
a  clear  conscience.  Personally,  in  my  morbid  moods, 
I'd  sweep  my  profession  into  that  rough  grey  sea." 

"  Gilbert  sometimes  says  it  is  a  rotten  profession, 
but  he  means  that  he  doesn't  get  enough  briefs.  You 
don't  mean  that." 

"  I  mean  that  the  law  is  a  machine  for  perpetuating 
and  standardising  some  of  our  worst  mistakes." 

"  But  haven't  there  got  to  be  prisons  and  divorce 
courts  for  some  people  ?  " 

*'  For  them  as  likes  them.  I  don't  know  that  I've 
any  substitute  for  prison  ready ;  but  I'd  have  no 
divorce  court." 

"  Why  not,  if  people  want  it  ?  "  Anne  had  read 
some  of  Francesca's  suffrage  papers,  and  had  gathered 
that,  in  the  opinion  of  those  entitled  to  judge,  it  was 
a  beneficent  institution. 

"  Marriage  is  protection  for  the  woman — her  only 
protection.  If  it  is  regarded  merely  as  a  civil  contract, 
it  is  for  life.  I'd  enforce  civil  penalties  for  a  breach 
of  contract,  but  I'd  have  no  dissolution.  Believe  me, 
nobody  wants  to  be  divorced  unless  they  want  to 
marry  somebody  else.  We're  suffering  from  too  much 
sentimentality  nowadays,  and  we  hate  the  thought 
of  making  people  dree  their  own  weird.  We  shrink 
from  pain.  It  is  all  part  of  the  materialism  of  the 


102  ANNE 

last  century.  We  call  it  rationalism,  God  help  us,  the 
most  irrational  philosophy  ever  conceived  !  It  is 
paganism  without  its  courage,  Christianity  shorn  of 
its  essential  doctrine  of  vicarious  atonement.  Where 
it  will  lead  us  to  I  don't  know  ;  either  through  greed 
and  envy  back  to  primordial  savagery,  or  through 
calamity  and  suffering  to  Catholicism.  There  is  no 
physical  millennium  at  the  end  of  the  road  we're  jour- 
neying." He  broke  off  abruptly.  "  I  didn't  mean 
to  inflict  this  sort  of  thing  on  you.  You  won't  want 
to  play  with  me  again  if  I  bore  you  like  this." 

"  Yes,  I  shall.    I  like  people  talking  to  me." 

"  It  isn't  my  habit.  Only  the  contrast  between 
you  as  you  sit  here,  so  young  and  happy,  and  gay 
and  hopeful,  and  the  woman  who  has  been  so  much  in 
my  mind,  was  almost  painful.  She  had  eyes  rather 
like  yours,  blue  and  wide  apart ;  only  there  was  fear 
in  hers,  and  hardness  and  rebellion." 

Anne  pulled  a  handful  of  thyme  from  the  fine  soft 
turf  and  crushed  it  in  her  fingers.  She  was  looking 
across  the  Forth  to  the  long  blue  line  of  the  Fifeshire 
hills,  and  he  was  watching  her. 

"  That's  why  I  won't  punish  Phil  when  he  is 
naughty.  He  is  awfully  naughty,  but  I  couldn't 
bear  to  hurt  him  or  make  him  afraid.  People 
shouldn't  be  made  afraid,  any  way  not  little  chil- 
dren, by  punishment." 

"  You  weren't  when  you  were  a  child  ?  " 

"  No.  I  was  very  naughty,  I  remember,  but  there 
was  nobody  who  cared." 

William  Dalliac  joined  his  wife  eventually.  He 
had  been  detained  by  a  strike  among  his  workpeople. 
He  was  a  short,  stout,  middle-aged  man  with  kind  eyes 
and  a  round  red  face.  Anne  wondered  how  Juliet 


ANNE  103 

Dalliac  could  love  such  an  ugly  husband,  and  felt 
very  proud  of  Gilbert's  height  and  good  looks.  But 
the  little  man  was  good-natured  and  hospitable,  and 
devoted  to  his  handsome  wife  :  he  went  out  of  his 
way  to  be  pleasant  to  her  new  friends,  and  cordially 
seconded  her  invitation  when  she  pressed  them  to 
visit  Crane  Hall. 

"  Unless  of  course  it  will  make  you  hate  us,  seeing 
us  in  possession  of  your  house  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Gilbert.  "  I  only  hope 
you'll  stick  to  it.  I  can't  afford  to  live  in  it ;  but  I 
should  like  to  show  the  place  to  Anne." 

"  Why  didn't  you  bring  her  before  ?  When  will 
you  come  ?  Fix  your  own  time.  We'll  ask  my 
brother-in-law  at  the  same  time  in  the  autumn.  He 
doesn't  shoot,  so  he'll  be  company  for  your  wife." 

"  Don't  the  foxes  rather  interfere  with  the  game  ?  " 
Gilbert  asked.  "When  I  was  a  boy  the  place  was 
overrun  with  them." 

"  The  hunt  keeps  them  down  a  bit.  Juliet  hunts. 
I'm  all  for  keeping  in  with  everyone.  Any  sort  of 
sport  for  my  money.  That's  my  motto.  Keep  in 
with  everyone  if  you  want  to  get  in  yourself.  Give 
me  a  county  constituency." 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  standing  ?  " 

"  At  the  next  election." 

The  visit  was  fixed  for  October ;  but  politics 
interfered  and  saved  the  lives  of  many  pheasants. 
The  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county  died,  and  his 
nephew,  the  county  member,  succeeded  to  his 
peerage  and  estates,  and  the  unexpected  by-election 
precipitated  William  Dalliac  on  to  the  political  stage 
before  he  was  quite  ready.  He  had  looked  forward 
to  working  up  the  constituency  for  another  two  years, 


104  ANNE 

and  was  rather  nervous  when  Gilbert  and  Anne 
arrived  ;  for  Juliet  Dalliac  telegraphed  at  the  last 
moment  to  say  the  shooting-party  was  postponed, 
but  she  begged  them  to  come  just  the  same  and  help 
with  the  election. 

Crane  Hall  looked  its  best  in  the  autumn.  The 
house  was  draped  with  trails  of  crimsoning  Virginia 
creeper,  and  late  pink  monthly  roses  blossomed 
luxuriantly  in  the  sheltered  angles  of  its  walls.  The 
flower-beds  were  still  full  of  tangled  colour  with 
heavy-headed  dahlias  ;  bushes  of  Michaelmas  daisies 
of  all  shades  of  purple  and  mauve  ;  tall  penstemon, 
spires  of  pink  and  crimson  bells  ;  masses  of  golden  rod 
and  white  Japanese  anemones,  and  giant  hollyhocks. 
The  silver-wet  lawns  were  patterned  every  morning 
with  pale  yellow  leaves  from  five  tall  limes,  where 
the  rooks  built,  and  the  chestnut  trees  in  the  grounds 
looked  as  if  little  fragments  of  sunset  had  been  caught 
in  their  branches  and  stayed  there,  staining  the  great 
leaves  pink  and  red.  Here  and  there  the  boughs  of 
the  great  beech  trees  were  tipped  with  bronze  and 
gold.  Anne  gazed  round  her  rather  wistfully. 

"  I  wish  we  could  live  here  !  "  she  said.  "  It  would 
be  so  nice  for  Phil." 

"  Phil  seems  to  me  to  do  very  well  where  he  is," 
replied  Gilbert ;  "  and  it  wouldn't  be  at  all  nice  for 
Phil  if  we  all  had  to  migrate  to  the  workhouse  at  the 
end  of  three  months,  as  we  certainly  should  if  we  tried 
to  live  here.  Besides,  you'd  hate  it  in  the  winter. 
It  is  beastly  cold  and  dull."  He  hurriedly  tried  to 
coax  the  idea  out  of  Anne's  head  before  it  got  firmly 
planted.  When  ideas  took  root  there  they  grew 
apace  and  were  apt  to  bear  fruit. 

"  How  much  money  would  it  cost  ?  " 


ANNE  105 

"  More  than  I'm  likely  to  have  for  a  long  time. 
Be  thankful  the  place  is  let." 

"  But  how  much  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  All  I  know  is  that  nearly  all  the 
rent  is  swallowed  up  in  estate  charges  before  I  get  it." 

"  It  would  be  nice  for  Phil  to  be  brought  up  here." 
Anne  had  a  way  of  incorporating  one  impregnable 
clause  in  an  argument  that  she  could  retreat  to  when 
defeated. 

Gilbert  was  glad  when  the  excitement  of  electioneer- 
ing entered  into  her  and  evicted  all  other  thoughts 
from  her  mind. 

The  Radical  candidate  had  the  advantages  of  being 
the  son  of  a  popular  character  in  Warnford,  and  of 
having  the  services  of  an  ingenious  and  quite  un- 
scrupulous agent.  This  agent  accomplished  the  initial 
feat  of  annoying  his  opponent ;  and  a  flurried,  irri- 
tated candidate  standing  for  the  first  time  is  apt  to 
lose  points  in  the  contest.  Lawrence  Ackroyd,  who 
had  come  down  to  coach  his  brother-in-law,  found 
him  difficult  to  manage :  he  had  not  the  art  of 
answering  unexpected  and  unanswerable  questions 
gracefully,  and  the  other  side  had  mastered  the 
science  of  putting  them  in  diverting  ways  at  discon- 
certing moments.  There  were  certain  wards  where 
his  hold,  always  slight,  grew  less  ;  in  the  brick-fields 
by  the  marshes ;  in  Warnford  itself  among  the  hands 
at  the  oil-cake  mills  down  by  the  river-side.  Dalliac's 
agent,  a  conscientious  young  enthusiast,  came  to 
Lawrence  Ackroyd  in  despair. 

"  It's  no  use,  sir  !  The  guv'nor  means  well,  but  he 
is  not  on  the  spot.  What's  the  use  of  his  talking 
Education  Bills  to  electors  that  don't  want  their  kids 
to  be  kept  at  school  ?  Or  Disestablishment  of  the 


106  ANNE 

Church  to  river-side  loafers  who  go  ratting  regularly 
every  Sunday  morning  ?  " 

"  If  we  could  afford  to  take  the  point  of  view  that 
the  education  of  the  electorate  is  desirable,  there  is 
a  good  deal  to  be  said,"  replied  Lawrence  Ackroyd. 
"  But  we  don't  want  to  lose  a  safe  seat.  What  do 
you  advise  ?  " 

"  Keep  the  guv'nor  out  of  it  now,  sir,  and  let  the 
ladies  canvass,"  came  with  candour  and  promptness, 
and  Lawrence  Ackroyd  paid  the  earnest  young  man 
the  compliment  of  taking  his  advice.  Juliet  and 
Anne,  who  had  hitherto  driven  to  political  meetings 
in  a  beribboned  carriage  to  decorate  the  platform  in 
village  schools  and  parish  rooms  by  their  presence, 
were  now  given  canvassing  cards  and  a  free  hand  in 
the  most  truculent  centres  of  uncertainty.  Juliet 
canvassed  nervously,  strenuously,  and  conscien- 
tiously ;  Anne  joyously,  with  the  eagerness  of  a 
child  for  a  new  game,  and  with  as  much  keenness  as 
if  her  life  and  future  happiness  depended  upon  the 
result  of  her  every  day's  work.  There  was  a  rumour 
that  one  dour  Radical  miller  resisted  all  her  pretty 
coaxing,  and  vowed  he'd  vote  blue  as  his  father  had 
before  him,  until  Anne's  lips  trembled,  her  eyes 
brimmed  with  tears,  when  the  embarrassed  miller 
hurriedly  said,  "  There,  there,  Missy,  don't  you  fret, 
I'll  change  my  colour  this  time." 

She  returned  every  day  triumphant,  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  entire  house  party.  Gilbert  and  Lawrence 
Ackroyd  had  coached  her  carefully  on  the  general 
lines  of  the  issues  of  the  election,  but,  as  far  as  they 
could  make  out,  her  methods  did  not  involve  much 
political  controversy.  An  elector  obstinate  enough 
to  argue  with  her  was  an  exceptional  phenomenon  in 


ANNE  107 

her  experience.  Once  she  casually  mentioned  that 
she  had  wasted  twenty  minutes  talking  about  Tariff 
Reform  to  a  sweep  in  a  mews. 

"  I  told  him  what  a  lot  of  good  it  would  do  to  the 
trade  of  the  country,"  she  said,  "  and  then  he  asked 
if  it  was  going  to  do  all  everybody  said  it  was,  how 
long  would  it  take  to  get  it  all  fixed  up  and  in  working 
order  ?  I  said  about  a  fortnight." 

A  shout  of  laughter  greeted  this  forecast  when  they 
realised  that  she  had  spoken  in  all  good  faith. 
Lawrence  Ackroyd  remarked,  "  The  other  side  can 
hardly  match  that."  And  Gilbert  said,  "  I  think  I'd 
better  put  an  advertisement  in  the  Personal  Column  of 
The  Times  to  declare  that  I  won't  be  responsible  for 
my  wife's  statements." 

But  Anne  won  the  election.  William  Dalliac  was 
returned  with  a  majority  of  eighty  votes,  and  was 
sincerely  grateful  to  his  pretty  guest.  So  was  Juliet ; 
and  when  Parliament  opened  in  February  and  the 
Dalliacs  came  up  to  London  to  their  house  in  Brooke 
Street  for  the  session,  they  tried  to  repay  their 
debt  by  endless  kindnesses  to  the  younger  people. 
Lawrence  Ackroyd  contrived  to  put  work  in  Gilbert's 
way.  Juliet  Dalliac  invited  Anne  to  all  her  parties, 
and  introduced  her  to  all  her  friends. 

Gilbert  explained  that  it  was  good  for  his  pro- 
fessional career  if  they  accepted  every  invitation, 
and  discovered  that  Anne  had  developed  a  new  in- 
terest in  his  work  which  he  did  nothing  to  encourage. 
He  suspected  that  she  was  secretly  ambitious  for  him 
to  make  sufficient  money  to  enable  them  to  live  at 
Crane  Hall.  He  had  no  desire  to  live  in  the  country, 
and  a  strong  conviction  that,  however  hard  he 
worked,  he  would  never  rise  to  the  lucrative  rungs  of 


108  ANNE 

the  ladder  of  the  Law.  He  was  not  anxious  for  Anne 
to  know  much  about  his  professional  affairs.  He  was 
not  a  very  successful  barrister,  and  she  was  acute 
enough  to  discover  this  if  he  gave  her  the  chance. 
She  was  impatient,  quick,  intolerant,  ruthless,  clear- 
eyed  ;  she  would  be  disappointed  in  him,  would 
probably  despise  him,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  be 
despised  by  a  dear  little,  silly,  clever  child  like  Anne. 
He  preferred  that  she  should  regard  him  as  a  mys- 
teriously busy  man,  and  he  fostered  this  idea  by  allow- 
ing her  to  imagine  he  had  work  when  he  frequently 
had  not.  He  didn't  lie  to  her,  but  he  didn't  take  her 
into  his  confidence.  And  Anne  had  plenty  of  other 
interests.  She  led  a  gay  life,  and  spent  a  good  deal 
of  money  on  her  clothes. 

Francesca  thought  she  was  becoming  frivolous  and 
extravagant :  she  did  not  say  so,  but  Anne  discerned 
the  unuttered  disapproval  and  avoided  her  as  much 
as  possible. 

Once  Francesca,  not  having  seen  her  sister-in-law 
for  three  months,  and  being  hurt  and  disappointed 
because  Anne  had  wired  a  flimsy  excuse  for  not  lunch- 
ing with  her,  went  to  Chelsea  for  the  deliberate  pur- 
pose of  reproaching  her.  She  went  at  an  hour  when 
she  knew  Anne  would  be  at  home.  The  maid  said 
"  Mrs.  Trevor  was  dressing  for  dinner,  but  wouldn't 
be  long,  and  Master  Phil  was  in  his  bath,  if  she  would 
like  to  wait  in  the  nursery."  The  small  boy  and  his 
aunt  were  cordial  friends,  and  her  ruffled  feelings 
were  partially  appeased  by  his  imperious  request  to 
be  washed  by  "  F'ancesca  "  :  he  adopted  his  parents' 
title  for  people,  nobody  could  make  him  say  "  aunt," 
and  Francesca  didn't  try  to. 

Phil,  clean  and  warm  and  sleepy,  with  his  little 


ANNE  109 

hard  head  with  its  damp  curls  nestled  against  her 
shoulder,  was  a  soothing  presence.  She  laid  her 
cheek  on  his  head,  and  forbore  to  hurry  him  over 
his  supper.  He  prolonged  the  repast  by  nibbling  his 
milk  biscuits  into  fantastic  shapes  and  chattering  to 
them. 

"  Now  I've  made  a  bear  !  Poor  old  bear,  shall  I 
bite  off  your  head  ?  No,  I'm  not  a  cruel  boy.  I'll 
bite  you  into  a  duck.  There  !  dear  little  duck ! 
F'ancesca,  are  there  bears  in  Heaven  ?  " 

"  Master  Phil  saw  bears  at  the  Zoo  and  is  afraid 
of  them,"  said  the  nurse,  who  was  hovering  in  and 
out  of  the  nursery. 

"  If  there  are  bears  in  Heaven  I  won't  go  there," 
he  replied  to  his  own  question. 

"  No,  darling,  of  course  there  are  no  bears  in 
Heaven." 

"  Ven  what  is  it  vat  growls  up  in  the  sky  in  a  fun- 
derstorm  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Only  the  thunder,  darling." 

"  I  fink  it  is  bears.  Is  God  up  vere  all  ve 
time  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  reassuringly,  "  all  the  time." 

"  Poor  old  God  !  "  said  Phil  slowly  and  devoutly. 

Just  then  Anne  came  into  the  nursery.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  new  frock,  all  blue  chiffon  and  silver 
sequins,  in  which  she  looked  prettier  than  Francesca 
had  ever  seen  her.  Phil  gave  a  little  squeal  of  admira- 
tion, and  Francesca  felt  a  throb  of  aesthetic  pleasure. 
She,  Francesca,  had  spent  the  afternoon  at  a  suffrage 
meeting.  The  speakers  had  been  eloquent  but 
dowdily  dressed  ;  the  audience,  working  women  with 
apathetic,  harassed  faces  and  dirty,  shabby,  ugly 
clothes.  The  room  had  been  hideous,  hot  and  ill- 


110  ANNE 

ventilated  ;  the  speeches  had  been  depressing,  all 
about  the  grievances  of  the  women  workers  in 
the  sweated  industries.  The  hateful,  suffocating, 
indescribable  smell  of  utter  poverty  had  been  in  the 
hall  itself,  and  the  meeting  hadn't  been  a  good  one  : 
a  sneering,  common  man  with  a  foreign  name  and  a 
Cockney  accent  had  been  sent  by  the  anti-suffragists 
to  interrupt,  and  he  had  done  so  with  cheap,  coarse 
jokes,  at  which  some  of  the  pitiful  women  in  the 
audience  had  laughed.  Francesca  had  come  away 
sick  at  heart  and  discouraged,  with  her  nerves  all 
ajar,  and  with  her  grievance  against  Anne  hot  and 
sore.  All  the  way  to  Chelsea  she  had  rehearsed  in  her 
mind  how  she  would  word  the  reproof  the  child  had 
so  assuredly  deserved,  and  now  she  found  herself 
involuntarily  smiling  in  pure  relief  at  the  blue  and 
silver  picture  of  joyousness. 

"  Mummy,  you  are  beautiful  to-night ! "  Phil 
exclaimed,  putting  his  arms  round  her  neck  and 
hugging  her  ecstatically  as  she  knelt  on  the  bath-rug. 

**  Phil,  you're  putting  biscuit  crumbs  all  down  my 
neck  !  They  are  so  prickly  and  uncomfortable.  Let 
me  go,  darling,  I  want  to  talk  to  Francesca."  She 
gave  him  to  his  nurse  to  be  carried  to  bed,  and  sat 
down  on  the  floor  at  Francesca's  feet,  with  her  hands 
round  her  knees,  her  own  pretty  silver  shoes  and 
stockings  making  Francesca's  black  boots  look  large 
and  dusty. 

Anne  was  feeling  a  little  guilty  about  her  behaviour, 
and  was  resolved  to  be  very  charming  to  atone  for 
past  delinquencies.  She  talked  about  Gilbert  and 
Phil,  and  was  confiding  and  affectionate  and  amusing. 
Francesca  deliberately  allowed  herself  to  be  beguiled  ; 
Anne  wiles  were  as  transparent  as  Phil's,  but  no 


ANNE  111 

human  woman  could  scold  anything  so  Titania-like. 
After  all,  argued  Francesca,  the  child  was  a  very  good 
wife  and  mother — she  would  pass  through  this  spoilt- 
child  phase.  In  Anne's  absence  Francesca  saw  her 
faults  very  clearly,  in  her  presence  she  only  saw  her 
grace  and  charm  and  child -like  ingenuousness  which 
appealed  to  all  Francesca's  maternal  instincts.  She 
felt  a  motherly  desire  to  improve  her,  to  correct  her  ; 
she  wanted  her  to  be  perfectly  good  as  well  as  delight- 
fully pretty  :  but  she  was  afraid  of  losing  her  affec- 
tion. 

Francesca  gradually  felt  at  peace  with  the  world 
again  ;  it  might  be  ugly  and  awry,  but  it  still  held 
compensations  in  the  form  of  such  satisfyingly  pretty 
creatures  as  Phil  and  Anne.  She  suddenly  stooped 
and  kissed  Anne,  and  Anne  flushed  and  clung  to  her 
for  a  moment,  and  held  up  her  lips  to  be  kissed  again. 
Anne  felt  forgiven,  and  Francesca  felt  reconciled, 
though  no  words  of  reproof  or  remorse  had  been 
spoken. 

They  drove  away  from  Chelsea  together.  Anne 
was  dining  with  Lawrence  Ackroyd  at  the  House, 
and  Francesca  was  dining  at  her  Club.  She  asked 
where  Gilbert  was. 

"  Oh,  he's  dining  with  the  Blakes." 

"  Didn't  they  invite  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  but  I  wouldn't  go.  I  can't 
stand  Laura  Blake,  she  bores  me,  and  I  hate  all  their 
friends.  And  Mr.  Ackroyd  is  taking  me  to  see  the 
ballet  at  the  Palace." 

Francesca  supposed  it  was  a  sensible  new  custom 
for  husbands  and  wives  to  make  separate  dinner 
engagements.  She  felt  she  had  fallen  out  of  London 
social  ways.  It  occurred  to  her  that  it  was  unwise  of 


112  ANNE 

Gilbert  to  allow  anyone  so  young  and  pretty  as  Anne 
to  dine  out  alone  with  other  men  ;  but  it  did  not  pass 
through  her  mind  that  there  was  any  harm  in  Gilbert 
going  alone  to  the  Blakes. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE  Blakes  had  once  been  comparatively  poor. 
That  is  to  say,  they  had  lived  through  a  time  in  West 
Kensington  when  they  had  only  been  able  to  keep 
two  servants,  and  when  paying  their  debts  had  been 
one  of  the  many  desirable  extravagances  they  could 
not  afford.  But  Charles  Blake,  who  possessed  neither 
perseverance,  nor  patience,  nor  any  of  the  particular 
virtues  which  would  have  brought  him  happiness 
in  his  circumstances,  and  had  a  restless  mind,  a 
discontented  wife,  and  expensive  tastes,  three  ever 
present  goads  to  spur  his  dissatisfaction  out  of  the 
unsuccessful  groove  of  the  law  in  which  his  father 
had  established  him,  tried  various  expedients  for 
augmenting  his  income  by  short  cuts  which  un- 
accountably led  to  the  diminishment  of  his  capital. 
And  then  one  day  a  black  man  walked  into  his  office. 
Nelson  Wellington  was  the  name  printed  on  the 
visiting  card  he  presented.  He  was  a  full-blooded 
negro  from  the  West  Coast  of  Africa,  and  he  was 
in  dire  need  of  legal  assistance.  He  was  being 
prosecuted,  he  said  unjustly,  on  account  of  a  little 
mistake  that  had  arisen  over  his  "  business  affair." 

His  "  business  affair,"  when  he  was  induced  to 
divulge  it,  had  the  single  merit  of  simplicity.  He 
was  engaged  in  promoting  a  company  for  obtaining 
mahogany  from  virgin  forests  in  Central  Africa. 

i  113 


114  ANNE 

He,  Nelson  Wellington,  claimed  to  be  the  son  of  a 
native  chieftain  with  special  rights  and  concessions 
in  the  country.  There  was  a  fortune  in  such  a 
timber  trade  he  averred,  and  he  was  in  London  to 
raise  sufficient  money  to  finance  it.  He  had  port- 
folios of  plans  and  large  scale  maps,  documents,  and 
photographs,  and  he  was  succeeding  admirably  in 
his  enterprise  when  ill-luck  confronted  him  in  the 
person  of  a  District  Political  Commissioner  home  on 
leave.  This  official  happened  to  be  related  by 
marriage  to  the  young  and  guileless  capitalist  who 
had  consented  to  become  a  Director  of  the  Karno 
Fellussi  Mahogany  Timber  Company,  and  who  had 
already  invested  five  thousand  pounds  in  it,  or 
imagined  he  had.  His  kinsman,  Captain  Anstruther, 
hearing  of  the  company,  had  taken  a  prompt  and 
keen  interest  in  it ;  so  prompt  and  so  keen  that 
Nelson  Wellington  was  in  the  predicament  that 
brought  him  in  great  distress  into  the  first  solicitor's 
office  he  had  happened  to  find. 

For  Captain  Anstruther,  who  knew  the  district, 
stated  that  while  the  mahogany  trees  undoubtedly 
existed,  the  means  for  getting  them  to  the  coast  did 
not,  there  was  neither  rail  nor  river  ;  and  that  the 
cost  of  transporting  the  logs  would  be  considerably 
more  than  the  price  the  mahogany  would  fetch  in 
the  market.  Furthermore,  when  the  incredulous 
Director  of  the  Company  produced  the  photographs 
of  the  gangs  of  labourers  already  engaged  in  the 
lucrative  timber  trade,  Captain  Anstruther  only 
stopped  laughing  to  cursf  "  the  black  nigger's  black 
insolence."  For  the  photographs,  genuine  enough, 
were  but  genuine  photographs  of  labourers  engaged 
in  constructing  a  new  Government  light  railway 


ANNE  115 

i 
several  hundred  miles  away  from  the  forest  where 

the  mahogany  trees  flourished  undisturbed.  Captain 
Anstruther  recognised  the  foreman  in  the  foreground, 
who  had  once  been  a  sergeant  in  his  Haussa  regiment. 
Moreover,  he  expressed  a  wish  to  meet  Nelson 
Wellington,  whom  he  suspected  of  being  concerned 
in  another  matter  that  interested  him  officially — a 
little  poisoning  affair.  Nelson  Wellington  almost 
wept  as  he  explained  what  an  unmerited  aspersion 
this  libel  cast  upon  his  character  :  he  had  never 
poisoned  any  human  being,  man  or  woman,  nor  even 
child.  He  omitted  to  state  that  Captain  Anstruther's 
accusation  referred  to  horses  ;  and  he  was  not  in 
the  least  anxious  that  a  meeting  between  them  should 
be  arranged.  He  did  not  even  seem  anxious  to  clear 
his  splendid  name.  He  explained  that  his  father 
was  ill,  and  he  feared  that  judicial  proceedings 
might  delay  his  return  to  West  Africa.  Charles 
Blake  feared  so  too.  His  black  client  amused  him  ; 
he  was  such  an  ingenious  scoundrel,  and  his  plan 
had  so  nearly  succeeded.  The  whole  thing  appealed 
to  Blake's  robust  sense  of  humour.  There  was  some 
technical  delay  over  initiating  legal  proceedings. 
Captain  Anstruther  wanted  him  indicted  on  some 
other  charge  than  that  of  obtaining  money  on  false 
pretences  ;  the  youthful  Director  hesitated  about 
appearing  in  the  public  eye  as  a  fool,  and  he  wanted 
his  money  back  ;  and  while  his  prosecutors  were 
hesitating,  Charles  Blake  gave  his  client  the  soundest 
advice  he  had  ever  given  anybody — to  catch  the  next 
Elder  Dempster  boat  at  Liverpool  and  return  to 
the  land  of  his  forefathers. 

The  man  had  been  so  scared,  and  was  so  relieved 
at  finding  himself  free  to  escape,  that  he  was  proper- 


116  ANNE 

tionately  grateful ;  for  he  attributed  this  freedom 
to  some  mysterious  and  ulterior  machinations  of  his 
legal  adviser.  His  gratitude  he  expressed  in  flowery 
language  in  a  letter  he  wrote  from  Lagos  when  he 
landed.  The  epistle  concluded  : 

"  And  now  my  ever  blessed  sir,  if  you  ever  want 
the  filthy  lucre  which  it  has  not  been  my  regarded 
privilege  to  award  to  you  in  return  for  your  es- 
teemed services  rendered,  I  would  adjure  you  that 
though  the  mahogany  wood  has  been  so  sorrowful 
a  failure  owing  to  circumstances  over  which  I 
have  no  control,  yet  there  is  a  hellish  lot  of  money 
to  be  made  out  of  the  rubber  trees  in  that  same 
place,  for  it  is  easier  to  carry  rubber  through  the 
Bush  than  to  bear  mahogany  logs." 

This  seemed  such  a  self-evident  proposition  to 
Charles  Blake  that  he  wondered  why  the  rascal 
hadn't  made  that  his  original  object,  until  the 
thought  struck  him  that  the  man  had  wanted  to 
raise  the  capital  to  work  the  rubber  for  his  own 
benefit  without  giving  valuable  information  away  to 
his  dupes,  and  that  the  mahogany  had  been  a  red 
herring.  Charles  Blake  decided  that  the  advice 
might  be  sound,  and  that  if  he  was  going  to  be  made 
a  bankrupt  it  might  as  well  be  for  a  large  sum.  He 
thought  his  wife  would  bear  the  misfortune  better 
if  he  failed  for  a  dignified  amount  of  money.  So  with 
the  remains  of  his  own  capital,  aH  his  wife's  money, 
and  all  the  money  he  could  borrow,  and  some  of  his 
clients',  he  went  out  to  Lagos,  and  did  not  return 
for  five  months.  Afterwards  he  sometimes  referred 
airily  to  his  "  little  holiday  when  he  went  to  Madeira 
on  the  way  home,"  but  he  never  vouchsafed  a  more 


ANNE  117 

detailed  account  of  how  he  passed  the  time.  But 
he  came  home  with  a  little  more  emphasis  in  his 
genial  bluff  manners,  and  promoted  the  West  African 
Illallah  Rubber  Company,  which  was  the  first  of  a 
successful  series  of  similar  financial  enterprises. 

There  are  diverse  ways  in  which  promoters  of 
companies  can  make  money  :  it  was  believed  that 
Charles  Blake  discreetly  tried  them  all.  At  any 
rate  he  did  make  a  great  deal  of  money  in  a  very 
short  time.  Then  he  left  off  promoting  companies 
and  became  a  Director  of  several  that  had  survived 
their  rickety  infancy.  He  invested  capital  in  indus- 
trial companies  in  the  Midlands,  endowed  a  hospital, 
and  took  an  interest  in  politics  by  subscribing  to 
party  funds  and  twice  contesting  a  perfectly  hope- 
less seat.  For  these  public  services  he  was  rewarded 
with  a  knighthood ;  and  his  father,  who  had  watched 
his  career  with  apprehension,  repented  of  his  dis- 
irust,  and  died  happily  in  the  erroneous  belief  that 
the  Government  of  the  country  knew  his  son  better 
than  he  did. 

Laura  Blake,  translated  first  from  the  western  limits 
of  West  Kensington  to  Campden  Hill  and  thence  to 
Grosvenor  Street,  still  remained  discontented. 

Charles  Blake  was  not  artistic.  He  admired  his 
wife  and  was  proud  of  her  voice,  but  he  liked  her 
to  dress  in  fashionably  cut  clothes  and  to  sing  "  Caller' 
Herring."  He  was  puzzled  by  her  preference  for 
flowing  draperies,  generally  in  dull  shades  of  purple 
or  blue,  and  bored  by  her  cultivation  of  modern 
German  music.  She  shuddered  at  his  gifts  of  horse- 
shoe diamond  brooches,  and  smiled  in  a  superior 
way  when  he  complained  that  the  music  she  and  her 
friends  raved  about  had  no  good  tunes  in  it,  and  that 


118  ANNE 

wrong  notes  would  sound  just  as  right  as  the  right 
notes.  He  learnt  to  give  in  to  her  whims  good 
humouredly,  saying,  "  If  a  woman  can't  have  her 
own  way  in  her  own  house  where  is  she  to  have  it  ?  " 
— and  finding  his  own  pleasure  and  indulging  his  own 
tastes  in  other  ways.  As  they  became  rich  he  grew 
stout  and  prosperous-looking  ;  she  admired  thin  men 
who  looked  ascetic  and  aristocratic.  And  she  admired 
Gilbert  Trevor  exceedingly.  They  had  first  met 
before  his  marriage,  and  he  had  attracted  her.  Charles 
Blake  was  then  beginning  to  make  money  and  they 
had  just  moved  to  Campden  Hill.  She  liked  every- 
thing about  him,  his  profession — a  barrister  was 
more  refined  than  a  company-promoting  solicitor — 
his  good  looks,  and  his  rather  proud  reserved  manners. 
Charles'  bluff  heartiness  got  on  her  nerves.  Gilbert 
was  interested  in  music  too.  It  was  part  of  Charles 
Blake's  trade  to  entertain  lavishly  and  Laura  was  a 
clever  hostess.  Gilbert  accepted  a  good  deal  of 
hospitality  from  them,  and  being  a  bachelor  was  not 
expected  to  return  it.  She  managed  to  see  a  good 
deal  of  him  in  those  days,  and  it  was  a  severe  dis- 
appointment to  her  when  he  married.  She  was 
relieved  to  find  his  wife  so  young  and  unformed  and 
insignificant.  She  felt  he  had  thrown  himself  away, 
and  that  somehow  constituted  a  triumph,  or  the 
promise  of  a  triumph,  for  her.  After  the  first  formal 
courtesies  she  and  Anne  avoided  each  other's  society. 
But  as  Lady  Blake,  with  a  large  house  in  Grosvenor 
Street  and  a  box  at  the  Opera,  she  renewed  her 
friendship  with  Gilbert.  He  admired  her  ;  she  was 
elegant,  graceful  in  a  languid  statuesque  way.  He 
pitied  her  ;  she  was  fastidious  and  intellectual  and 
her  husband  was  a  bounder.  She  deliberately  exerted 


ANNE  119 

herself  to  fascinate  him.  It  provoked  her  to  find 
that  he  was  quite  safely  in  love  with  his  wife,  for  she 
had  decided  that  his  wife  was  unworthy  of  him.  Once 
or  twice  she  let  him  see  that  she  considered  he  had 
thrown  himself  away,  so  cleverly  and  subtly  that  he 
could  not  have  resented  or  challenged  it  without 
appearing  to  be  a  conceited  coxcomb.  He  was 
flattered  by  her  preference  and  admiration  ;  he  found 
her  sympathetic.  Anne  never  flattered  him,  nor  was 
Anne  quite  so  systematically  sympathetic  ;  she  was 
too  young  and  candid.  Gradually  and  unconsciously 
he  came  to  category  Anne  as  "  a  dear  little  girl," 
Laura  Blake  as  "  a  charming  woman." 

There  was  another  reason  why  he  deliberately  saw 
a  good  deal  of  the  Blakes.  Sir  Charles  Blake  seemed 
to  have  a  genius  for  making  money,  and  Gilbert 
sometimes  thought  of  asking  him  for  financial 
advice  ;  for  Anne,  either  in  spite  of,  or  because  of, 
her  penurious  youth,  was  taking  to  extravagance  as 
a  wild  deer  to  the  mountains.  He  hesitated  about 
doing  this.  He  had  heard  rumours  that  all  the 
ways  in  which  Blake  had  made  his  money  were  not 
creditable,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  be  concerned  in 
shady  business  transactions  ;  he  just  held  the  idea 
before  himself  as  a  possibility  that  was  always  open 
to  him. 

Juliet  Dalliac  sometimes  teased  Anne  about 
Gilbert's  growing  intimacy  with  the  Blakes.  Anne 
laughed  ;  it  was  so  like  Juliet !  Juliet  was  so  good- 
tempered,  kind,  and  simple,  incapable  of  malice  or 
mischief,  looking  at  everything  with  round,  dark, 
short-sighted  eyes  that  saw  everything  in  crude 
colours  and  straight  lines.  Her  brother,  who  was 
devoted  to  her,  once  said  she  had  a  thoroughly 


120  ANNE 

commonplace  mind  :  and  she  had  good-humouredly 
retorted,  that  in  a  thoroughly  commonplace  world  it 
was  the  most  useful  kind  of  mind  to  possess.  She 
had  all  the  domestic  virtues,  was  an  excellent  house- 
keeper, an  affectionate  wife,  and  a  sensible  mother  ; 
her  three  little  girls  were  model  children  who  looked 
up  to  Phil  Trevor  with  the  unreciprocated  awe  and 
respect  that  is  the  tribute  of  admiration  good  children 
invariably  and  perversely  pay  to  naughty  ones.  She 
was  a  happy  wife  and  an  unselfish  friend,  and  had 
a  normal,  sane  outlook  upon  life,  literature,  and  art. 
Anyone  who  deviated  from  the  simple  unimaginative 
limits  of  her  vision  she  diagnosed  as  mad.  She  had 
three  classifications  for  such  persons  and  things — 
"  rather  mad,"  "  quite  mad,"  and  "  a  bit  too  mad." 
Most  of  the  people  she  liked  and  understood  were 
"  rather  mad  "  :  everybody  she  liked  but  didn't 
understand  was  "  quite  mad,"  and  the  people  she 
neither  liked  nor  understood  were  dismissed  as  "  a 
bit  too  mad."  The  people  she  considered  sane  were 
negligibly  few.  She  applied  the  same  standard  to 
books  and  pictures  and  music. 

She  loved  Anne  but  thought  her  quite  mad.  Laura 
Blake  she  knew  and  considered  a  "  bit  too  mad." 
John  Halliday  she  met  at  Chelsea  and  found  rather 
mad,  but  she  liked  him  and  invited  him  to  dinner. 
He  was  unable  to  accept  the  invitation  because  his 
evening  clothes  were  worn  into  holes,  and,  at  the 
moment,  he  could  not  afford  a  new  suit,  having 
exhausted  his  credit  at  his  tailor's.  He  told  her 
this  quite  simply,  and  as  it  always  distressed  her  that 
anyone  she  knew  should  be  really  poor,  she  tried  to 
befriend  him.  After  consulting  her  brother,  she  tried 
to  persuade  her  husband  to  find  him  work. 


ANNE  121 

"  You  know  you  do  need  somebody  to  read  Blue 
Books  and  write  your  speeches  for  you.  You  can't 
really  look  after  your  business  and  be  a  good  Member 
of  Parliament  unless  you're  helped,  and  that  nice 
Mr.  Halliday  would  be  such  a  comfort." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  He's  got  such  a  nice  kind  face  ;  and  Anne  says 
he's  awfully  clever,  and  writes  so  well." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  he'd  care  about  being  my 
secretary  ?  Seems  to  me  it  would  be  a  dog's  life." 

"  You  can  but  ask  him,"  said  Juliet.  "  Do  it 
tactfully." 

So  John  was  invited  to  lunch  one  Sunday.  And 
William  Dalliac,  when  they  were  smoking  in  his 
library  afterwards,  scattered  cigar  ash  over  a  pile 
of  papers  on  his  writing-table,  and  said  : 

"  I'm  finding  this  rather  too  much  of  a  good  thing. 
Can't  neglect  business,  yet  if  I  don't  half  a  hundred 
things  don't  get  done." 

"  You  need  a  secretary,"  said  John  innocently. 

"  That's  the  difficulty.  I've  tried  one,  as  nice 
a  red-haired  girl  as  ever  wore  spectacles ;  but  she 
didn't  work." 

"  Not  much  good  if  she  wouldn't  work,"  agreed 
John. 

"  I  don't  mean  she  didn't  work"  explained  the 
harassed  M.P.  "  Most  conscientious  girl  she  was  ! 
I  meant  it  didn't  answer.  She  did  what  I  told  her 
to  before  I  had  time  to  stop  her.  It  is  a  tricky  thing 
a  secretary.  I  don't  want  someone  to  be  polite  for 
me.  I  can  be  polite  myself  if  necessary.  I  want 
someone  to  damn  my  clerk-of-the-work's  eyes  when 
he  rings  me  up  with  a  lot  of  silly  unnecessary  messages 
when  I'm  busy." 


122  ANNE 

'  You  want  a  man,"  hazarded  John. 

"  Yes,  and  one  that  can  squeeze  the  juice  out  of  a 
Blue  Book  and  boil  it  down  on  a  postcard  for  me. 
Are  you  interested  in  politics  yourself  ?  " 

"  I'm  a  writer,"  said  John.  "  And  I  live  in  the 
Euston  Road.  I'm  interested  in  the  world  and  I'd 
be  interested  in  politics  if  I  could  see  any  sense  come 
out  of  all  the  talking.  You  know  it  is  a  queer  neigh- 
bourhood where  I  live.  It  is  noisy  and  dirty.  Some- 
times when  I  sit  writing  about  imaginary  people  in 
imaginary  places  and  I  hear  a  row  outside,  a  fight 
perhaps,  and  children  shrieking,  and  drunken  men 
and  women  shouting,  I  want  to  leave  my  story  and 
go  down  and  interfere.  If  I  did  I  should  probably 
get  run  in.  Now  Parliament  has  the  power  to  inter- 
fere without  getting  into  trouble  with  the  police  ; 
it  seems  to  me  it  misses  its  opportunity." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  of  useful  legislation  put 
through." 

"  I  don't  know  that  the  people  I'm  talking  about 
want  legislation." 

"  What  do  they  want  then  ?  " 

"  Most  of  'em  want  washing." 

"  You're  not  suggesting  Members  of  Parliament 
should  set  out  and  wash  them,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  !  It  would  be  rather  a  lark  !  Put 
'em  on  flannel  aprons,  and  give  'em  a  sponge  and 
towel  and  a  cake  of  soap,  and  set  them  to  bathing 
all  the  kids  that  need  it — I  bet  you  we'd  have  a 
darned  sight  more  sensible  House  of  Commons  at  the 
end  of  a  week  !  " 

William  Dalliac  stared  at  John  with  awakening 
perplexity. 

"  You're  not  a  Socialist,  are  you  ?  " 


ANNE  123 

"  Rather  not !  I've  read  all  those  Socialist  chaps 
have  got  to  say,  and  very  brainy  some  of  them  are  ; 
awfully  plausible  till  they  get  together  and  stand  on 
the  table  trying  to  break  each  other's  heads  with  the 
chairs.  But  you  know  they  all  leave  women  out  of 
their  calculations.  That's  what  puts  them  so  hope- 
lessly wrong." 

"  Most  of  them  are  feminists — votes  for  women 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing — aren't  they  ?  " 

"  That's  where  they're  such  egregious  blighters  !  " 
explained  John  affably.  "  I'm  a  suffragist  myself, 
and  so  is  any  man  that  isn't  a  cad  ;  but  any  political 
system  that  card-indexes  women  as  '  feminists,'  and 
thinks  it  has  settled  everything  is  fundamentally 
rotten.  Why  won't  men  knuckle  down  to  a  Socialist 
state  and  share  out  equally  ?  Because  they  don't 
want  to  !  And  why  don't  they  want  to  ?  Because 
of  the  women  !  It  isn't  crass  selfishness  that's  at  the 
bottom  of  the  inequalities,  or  unfairness.  Women 
aren't  selfish,  and  men  may  be  selfish  as  individuals, 
but  they're  not  selfish  as  a  race.  Anyway  it  isn't 
selfishness  that  makes  them  work,  and  fight  to  keep 
what  they've  got  and  get  a  bit  more." 

"  What  do  you  make  it  out  to  be  then  ?  " 

'*  Love,"  said  John  stoutly.  "  That's  why  you 
can't  alter  it.  A  man  wants  the  woman  he  loves  to 
have  every  blessed  thing  she  can  think  of,  and  it's 
because  women  can  think  of  such  a  lot  of  queer 
things  to  want  that  they're  so  interesting.  Look  at 
their  clothes  and  their  furniture  !  A  man  is  content 
with  a  leather  arm-chair.  A  woman,  when  she's  got 
an  arm-chair,  wants  three  pink  cushions  too,  to  put 
in  it,  with  tassels  at  the  corners  and  things  em- 
broidered all  over  them.  And  a  man  who'd  share 


124  ANNE 

his  dinner  with  a  hungry  tramp,  will  fight  and  shed 
blood  to  keep  the  right  and  the  power  to  give  his 
wife  pink  silk  cushions  if  he's  reached  that  stage  of 
civilisation.  And  quite  right  too  !  " 

John  gave  a  friendly  thump  to  the  cushion  on  the 
sofa. 

"  Aren't  you  cutting  across  the  political  econo- 
mists ?  " 

"  Political  economists  don't  know  anything.  What- 
ever they  say  is  always  wrong,  only  they're  cunning 
enough  not  to  be  found  out.  What  they  do  is  to 
invent  a  lot  of  laws  that  aren't  laws  at  all  but  just 
phenomena.  Then  they  write  a  book,  and  put  in  a 
lot  of  statistics  to  prove  their  argument,  and  make 
a  lot  of  prophecies  ;  and  when  these  don't  come  true, 
they  say  it  is  because  people  don't  know  what  is  good 
for  them,  or  some  such  excuse.  I've  read  lots  of 
their  books  and  they  give  me  the  hump." 

"  I  don't  mind  admitting  that  they  give  me  the 
hump  too." 

"  And  why  is  it  ?  " 

"  I've  never  quite  decided." 

"I'll  tell  you  :  it  is  because  they  leave  everything 
that  matters  out  of  their  calculations.  Of  course 
the  things  that  matter,  man's  faith  and  hope  and  his 
love,  aren't  calculable  so  they  can't  help  it  even  if 
they  wanted  to,  which  apparently  they  don't.  It 
isn't  their  fault,  only  they  shouldn't  make  a  science 
of  it.  Mathematicians  can  make  a  science  out  of 
their  material  because  they  always  know  exactly  how 
a  conic  section  will  behave  :  but  if  the  directrix  of 
a  parabola,  instead  of  going  on  to  infinity,  suddenly 
turned  round  and  said,  '  I've  had  enough  of  this, 
I'm  going  home  ! '  where'd  they  be  ?  In  the  lunatic 


ANNE  125 

• 

asylums,  where  most  of  the  political  ec(  nomists 
ought  to  be." 

"  Aren't  you  rather  hard  on  them  ?  "  The  younger 
man's  vehemence  was  amusing  William  Da>iiac. 

"  No,  beeai  se  they  do  a  lot  of  harm.  Taeir  rules 
would  only  wt  rk  if  man  was  a  selfish  machine.  The 
secret  of  prog -ess  is  man's  inherent  tendency  to  act 
against  his  ov  n  material  interests.  If  men  were  as 
selfish  as  their  ri  les  of  the  game  assume  them  to  be 
the  world  would  get  on  according  to  their  axioms, 
and  things  would  right  themselves.  There'd  be  no 
poverty,  and  everyone  would  be  as  smug  and  self- 
satisfied  as  they'd  like  'em  to  be,  and  the  race  would 
either  be  extinct  or  have  evolved  into  monkeys.  But 
it  is  men's  altruism  that  is  always  getting  in  the 
way." 

William  Dalliac  surveyed  his  guest  meditatively. 
Then  he  said  :  "  Do  you  find  your  profession  a  lucra- 
tive one,  if  it  isn't  an  impertinent  question  ?  " 

"Not  particularly.  No  one  wants  to  buy  what  I 
want  to  write." 

Half  an  hour  later  William  Dalliac  sought  his  wife 
and,  with  the  complacent  smile  of  a  man  who  has 
contrived  to  do  a  meritorious  action  and  advance  his 
own  interests  at  the  same  time,  he  told  her  that 
he'd  engaged  John  Halliday  as  his  secretary. 

"  He's  a  nice  lad.  Thinks  people  aren't  selfish, 
and  that  three  pounds  a  week  is  a  large  income. 
He'll  save  me  a  lot  of  worry." 

John  walked  home  slowly  with  rather  a  troubled 
expression  in  his  eyes.  He  had  accepted  the  offered 
post  wholly  because  he  thought  it  would  keep  him 
in  touch  with  Anne.  He  had  found  it  difficult  to  see 
much  of  her  lately.  As  a  daily  inmate  of  the  house 


126  ANNE 

of  her  great  friends  he  would  see  her  more  often  and 
hear  of  her  continually.  His  hungry  heart  would  be 
fed,  but  his  work  would  nave  to  be  laid  aside,  and  he 
could  not  renounce  it  lightly.  He  tried  to  rejoice  over 
his  landlady's  good  fortune  in  getting  his  rent  assured 
regularly  for  some  time  to  come,  but  that  was  irre- 
levant comfort.  He  spent  the  evening  poring  over 
a  half-finished  story,  scratching  out  redundant 
words,  altering  phrases,  gloating  over  happy  expres- 
sions. At  moments  he  was  tempted  to  think  of 
writing  to  decline  the  work  he  had  been  offered,  but 
then  came  the  thought,  what  was  the  use  even  of 
success  to  him  if  in  pursuing  his  aim  he  drifted  away 
from  Anne  ?  He  needed  Anne  in  his  life  more  than 
he  wanted  fame.  She  was  living  in  a  different  world 
at  present,  one  far  removed  from  his  dingy,  struggling, 
shabby  world.  The  world  he  had  been  lunching  in, 
with  its  luxury,  its  fantastically  delicate  food  and 
wine  in  a  romantic  setting  of  silver  and  flowers  was 
the  proper  world  for  Anne,  but  his  only  chance  of 
meeting  her  in  it  seemed  to  be  the  chance  he  had 
been  offered.  He  had  seized  it  impulsively.  The 
one  illusion  he  would  not  be  parted  from  was  a  hazy 
idea  that  in  some  way  he  was,  or  would  be,  necessary 
to  Anne.  He  cherished  a  vague  feeling  that  nothing 
harmful  could  happen  to  her  while  he  was  watching 
over  her  even  from  a  distance. 


THE  "  Dalliac  Press  "  offices  were  in  St.  Martin's 
Lane  ;  the  printing  works  were  in  Camden  Town  ; 
and  the  Dalliac's  house  was  in  Brooke  Street.  John 
found  his  time  fairly  evenly  divided  between  these 
three  places  and  Westminster.  His  work  was  varied  ; 
he  read  Blue  Books  and  White  Papers  and  made 
copious  notes  from  which  he  framed  speeches  that 
were  intended  to  enliven  proceedings  in  the  House  of 
Commons — only  William  Dalliac  never  delivered 
them.  He  was  quite  pleased  to  go  down  to  the  House 
with  typewritten  speeches  in  his  pocket,  and  no 
intention  in  his  mind  of  catching  the  Speaker's  eye. 
He  would  glance  through  the  pages,  chuckle  over 
John's  candid  expression  of  opinion,  and  use  some 
of  his  most  striking  expressions  in  conversations 
in  the  lobby  or  smoking-room ;  but  John  scanned 
Hansard  in  vain  for  his  winged  words  of  wisdom, 
and  began  to  have  a  poor  opinion  of  the  Speaker's 
sense  of  justice.  At  the  St.  Martin's  Lane  office  he 
set  himself  to  understand  estimates  and  contracts, 
and  to  learn  the  ways  of  paper  manufacturers  and 
advertising  agents  ;  but  when  he  could  escape  to  the 
works  at  Camden  Town  he  was  really  happiest.  He 
appropriated  a  small  bare  room  with  two  large 
windows  looking  into  a  quadrangular  paved  court- 
yard ;  the  linoleum  had  all  the  pattern  worn  off  and 

127 


128  ANNE 

was  stained  with  spots  of  red  and  black  ink,  the 
distempered  walls  were  faded  and  cracked,  the 
furniture  was  ill-matched,  worn  and  scanty,  and  the 
only  ornament  was  a  decorative  calendar.  At 
Camden  Town  the  manager  of  the  works  was  a  middle- 
aged  Scotsman,  recently  promoted  from  the  manage- 
ment of  the  Edinburgh  branch.  He  was  a  clever, 
energetic,  bad-tempered  man,  short  and  broad- 
shouldered  with  a  square  red  face  and  stiff  red  hair 
and  moustache,  and  small  twinkling  blue  eyes.  His 
name  was  Duncan  Campbell.  John  suspected  him  of 
drinking,  and  loathed  the  rough,  overbearing  way  he 
spoke  to  the  men.  But  he  was  competent.  He  had, 
moreover,  that  intelligent  respect  for  education  that 
distinguishes  the  working-classes  of  Scotland  from 
their  English  brethren  south  of  the  Border.  An 
Englishman  of  his  type,  class,  and  temperament 
would  probably  have  resented  John's  presence  at  the 
works,  and  made  it  difficult  or  unpleasant  for  him  to 
maintain  any  position  of  authority  :  for  John  was 
younger,  wholly  ignorant  of  the  technical  mysteries 
of  the  printing  craft,  and  full  of  his  own  ideas  as  to 
what  looked  well  in  type.  In  spite  of  these  three 
reasons,  which  might  have  tempted  another  man  to 
discomfort  and  disconcert  him,  Campbell  not  only 
treated  him  with  respect  but  with  laborious  and 
ponderous  amiability.  The  manager  knew  every- 
thing there  was  to  be  known  about  inks,  papers,  and 
linotype  and  monotype  machines  ;  he  could  estimate 
time  and  costs  more  quickly  and  more  accurately 
than  any  other  printer  in  London  ;  but  he  was  not  so 
familiar  with  the  hand-presses  used  for  the  casual 
jobs,  and  he  lacked  knowledge  of  the  finer  grades  of 
printing  as  an  art.  He  knew  his  trade  by  rule  of 


ANNE  129 

thumb.  On  John's  first  visit  to  the  office  the 
rough  proof  of  a  double-crown  poster  was  on  the 
table  being  corrected.  John  glanced  at  it  with  a 
critical  eye. 

"  Good  bold  type  this,"  said  Campbell,  who  was 
showing  John  over  the  works  with  the  airs  of  a 
proprietor. 

"  A  bit  heavy  for  my  taste,"  said  John. 

"  It's  an  advertisement,  sir.  Got  to  have  some- 
thing striking  that  will  be  seen  on  the  hoardings," 
explained  the  manager  patronisingly. 

"  It  will  be  seen  all  right,"  remarked  John.  "  But 
unless  you're  straight  in  front  of  it  it  will  be  mighty 
difficult  to  read  it." 

Campbell  stopped  and  looked  quickly  from  the 
poster  to  John  and  back  again. 

"  They've  crowded  it  a  bit,"  he  said  doubtfully. 

"It  is  those  fat  letters,"  continued  John  inno- 
cently. "  If  they  were  thinner  it  would  show  up  at 
twice  the  distance  at  any  angle." 

The  man  had  a  swift  inward  debate  :  whether  to 
admit  that  John  was  right,  that  an  untrained  eye 
had  judged  more  truly  than  his  own,  or  whether  to 
assert  his  own  experience  and  sweep  John's  criticism 
aside  with  a  heavy  hand  of  authority.  There  was 
only  one  thing  he  valued  more  than  his  own  reputa- 
tion for  infallibility,  and  that  was  the  reputation  of 
the  firm  :  the  two  were  bound  up  together  in  his  own 
mind.  No  other  firm  could  compete  with  his  firm 
for  swift,  accurate,  cheap  wholesale  work  :  but  other 
London  firms  could  and  did  beat  his  when  it  came  to 
jobbing,  occasional  orders.  There  were  profits  to  be 
made  in  such  orders,  and  the  London  works  existed 
partly  for  the  sake  of  that  particular  branch  of  the 


130  ANNE 

trade.  He  aimed  at  capturing  the  casual  fish  that 
went  at  present  into  other  nets.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  John,  being  a  man  of  education,  might  be  able 
to  bring  an  artistic  taste  to  bear  on  matters  where 
his  own  views  were  of  doubtful  value.  He  decided 
to  be  respectful.  He  had  the  poster  reset  in  lighter 
type,  and  admitted  that  John  had  been  right.  After 
that  experience  he  took  pains  over  John's  initiation 
into  the  technical  mysteries  of  the  craft,  brought 
proofs  to  him  for  his  advice,  deferred  to  his  opinion, 
even  when  John  suggested  drastic  alterations.  And 
John  spent  his  spare  afternoons  in  the  North  Library 
at  the  British  Museum  studying  the  productions  of 
William  Morris,  and  other  fine  examples  of  modern 
printing,  and  his  spare  moments  in  trying  to  persuade 
William  Dalliac  to  order  new  founts  of  type,  and 
Duncan  Campbell  and  the  compositors  into  scrapping 
every  finial  and  initial  ornament  in  the  works. 
William  Dalliac  was  pleased  at  his  enthusiasm,  but 
only  amused  at  the  fascination  exercised  by  the 
printing  works  :  nobody  understood  or  sympathised 
with  that  but  Duncan  Campbell,  who  encouraged  it. 
Briefly,  his  view  was  that  the  more  time  and  attention 
given  to  the  firm  by  persons  of  intelligence  the  better, 
and  John  Halliday  was  a  person  of  intelligence  within 
the  meaning  of  the  words  :  persons  of  unintelli- 
gence  were  the  large  class  of  beings  who  were  not 
interested  in  printing  and  whose  opinion  would  be  of 
no  value  if  they  had  been.  There  were  people  in  the 
world  to  whom  "  serifs,"  "  quads,"  "  quoins  "  and 
"  mortices  "  were  unknown  terms  ;  Campbell  was 
glad  to  think  of  them  as  being  safely  outside  the 
works,  and  likely  to  remain  there  :  "  bletherring 
eediots  "  he  called  them. 


ANNE  13) 

John  invited  Anne  to  come  and  be  shown  over  the 
works  ;  but  she  first  postponed  and  then  evaded  the 
expedition.  She  was  disappointed  that  he  should 
have  chosen  to  be  interested  in  printing  other  people's 
books  rather  than  in  writing  them  himself ;  she  felt 
he  had  descended  a  rung  or  two  in  the  intellectual 
ladder.  Her  interest  in  his  affairs  was  precious  to 
John  and  any  manifestation  of  it  welcome. 

He  said  to  her  :  "  One  day  I  shall  finish  my 
book,  in  the  meantime  other  things  are  jolly 
interesting." 

"  But  they  are  other  people's  things,  not  yours." 

'*  That  doesn't  make  them  less  interesting." 

"  You  don't  understand  what  I  mean,"  she  replied. 
"  I  think  it  is  very  silly  of  you  to  waste  your  time." 

"  I'm  not  wasting  my  time,"  he  protested. 

"  Yes  you  are,"  she  said  angrily.  "  You're  much 
too  good  to  be  spending  your  time  in  those  horrid 
printing  works." 

"  Printing  is  awfully  important — you've  no  idea 
what  a  difference  a  beautiful  type  makes,"  he  pleaded ; 
but  Anne  was  annoyed  and  ready  to  quarrel  with 
him,  so,  rather  wistfully,  he  changed  the  conversa- 
tion. 

He  reflected  that  the  advantage  of  seeing  Anne 
more  frequently  which  he  had  gained  by  his  change 
of  occupation  passed  over  her  head.  He  gloated  over 
it  in  secret.  She  was  growing  prettier,  he  thought, 
and  was  evidently  having  a  good  time.  Gilbert  must 
be  making  a  lot  of  money,  was  another  idea  that 
gave  him  satisfaction,  for  Anne  was  beautifully 
dressed. 

Gilbert,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  not  making  a  lot 
of  money  ;  and  it  was  a  fact  that  was  beginning  to 


132  ANNE 

disturb  him,  for  William  Dalliac  was,  and  had  notified 
him  that  he  was  looking  for  a  larger  country  house, 
and  would  not  renew  his  tenancy  of  Crane  Hall  when 
his  seven  years'  lease  expired.  Anne  took  the  news 
quite  cheerfully  and  suggested  that  when  a  new 
tenant  was  found  the  rent  might  be  raised.  He 
pointed  out,  with  some  irritation,  that  the  place 
might  be  empty  for  years,  and  that  in  any  case  his 
agents  reported  that  the  roof  was  in  bad  order  and 
would  have  to  be  repaired. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I'm  going  to  find  the  money," 
he  grumbled. 

They  were  in  Phil's  nursery,  playing  with  an 
elaborate  engine  that  Lawrence  Ackroyd  had  given 
him.  Phil,  forbidden  to  carry  out  his  own  method  of 
deriving  amusement  from  it,  his  own  method  being 
to  turn  it  upside  down  and  hammer  its  internal 
machinery  with  a  brick,  took  no  interest  in  it.  He 
retreated  to  the  window-seat  with  his  fur  monkey 
and  whispered  stories  in  its  ear,  ostentatiously  ignor- 
ing his  mother  and  father  on  the  floor  who  were 
making  the  engine  perform  its  natural  orthodox 
functions  for  his  benefit. 

"  Can't  we  economise  by  living  there  ourselves  ?  " 
said  Anne.  "  Then  we  shouldn't  have  to  pay  rent 
here." 

"  And  what  about  my  work,  you  little  goose  ?  " 

"  I  forgot  that.    Don't  overwind  it,  Gilbert." 

"  Besides,  anyway  I  can't  afford  to  keep  it  up. 
I'm  not  overwinding  it.  Mind  your  hand  !  " 

"  I  suppose  we  must  economise  over  holidays  this 
year,"  said  Anne,  rather  ruefully.  "  Let's  not  go 
abroad.  The  Dalliacs  have  asked  us  to  spend  Easter 
with  them.  Let's  go  there  instead  of  to  Paris.  And 


ANNE  133 

let's  go  to  Francesca  in  the  summer.  She  wants  us, 
and — Oh  !  It  has  hurt  me  !  "  The  machinery  of  the 
toy,  starting  suddenly,  had  pinched  her  hand  which 
was  holding  it  unscientifically. 

*'  I  told  you  to  be  careful — let's  see  the  damage." 
He  took  Anne's  finger  out  of  her  mouth  and  examined 
the  cut.  "  It  isn't  much — what  a  baby  you  are  ! 
Here,  I'll  tie  it  up.  What  silly  little  soft  hands  ! 
They  don't  feel  as  if  they've  got  any  bones  in 
them." 

He  tore  a  strip  off  his  handkerchief  and  made  a 
bandage,  and  while  he  bent  over  her  hand,  binding  it 
with  gentleness  and  skill,  he  said  : 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  to  give  up  Paris. 
We  always  spend  far  too  much  money,  and  you're 
quite  happy  at  the  Dalliacs.  They're  sure  to  have  a 
house  full.  .  .  .  That  isn't  too  tight  ?  ...  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  Blakes  have  asked  me  to  go  up  to  them 
in  Scotland  for  some  fishing.  It  would  fit  in  rather 
well." 

"  What,  instead  of  coming  to  Crane  Hall  ?  " 

"  Yes.  They've  taken  a  shooting-lodge  at  Loch 
something,  Strathspey." 

Some  instinct  in  Anne  that  she  could  not  fathom 
made  her  exclaim  : 

"  Oh  no — I  think  that's  a  horrid  idea.  Do  come 
to  Crane  Hall  with  me  !  " 

"  Why  is  it  a  horrid  idea  ?  How  absurd  you  are  ! 
Why  shouldn't  I  go  fishing  ?  " 

"  Because  I  want  you  to  come  to  the  Dalliacs." 

"  That  is  no  reason." 

The  finger  was  bandaged,  her  hand  released ;  she 
withdrew  it,  and  he  looked  at  her  searchingly.  He 
wondered  whether  she  was  going  to  fly  into  a  temper  : 


134  ANNE 

she  generally  did  if  she  really  minded,  and  then  he 
usually  gave  in.  He  would  have  given  in  now  if  she 
had  coaxed  him  not  to  accept  the  invitation,  or  had 
flown  into  a  rage.  But  she  was  too  proud  to  plead 
any  more.  They  were  both  silent  for  a  moment. 
Phil's  voice  crooning  to  his  beloved  Jimmy,  came 
from  the  window. 

"...  And  so  ve  soldiers  brought  out  ve  elephant, 
and  first  vey  painted  it  all  over  wif  treacle,  and  ven 
vey  painted  it  all  over  wif  water,  and  ven  vey  painted 
it  all  over  wif  paint — d'you  see,  Jimmy  ?  " 

Anne  got  up  from  the  floor. 

"  I  suppose  Phil  is  included  in  the  invitation  ?  " 
Gilbert  asked. 

"Of  course." 

Her  voice  was  indifferent.  Gilbert  decided  that 
she  didn't  mind  enough  to  get  angry  :  whereas  she 
was  angry,  but  was  too  proud  to  betray  it.  She  had 
no  real  objection  to  Gilbert  going  to  stay  with  the 
Blakes,  but  she  was  vexed  with  him  for  not  giving 
way  at  once  when  she  had  asked  him  to  stay  with  her  ; 
while  Gilbert  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  give  way 
to  Anne  but  felt  a  little  guilty  about  going  to  stay 
with  the  Blakes.  Laura  was  beginning  to  make  him 
feel  self-conscious  when  he  was  with  her — but  only 
pleasantly  self-conscious — conscious  that  he  was  a 
much  more  attractive  man  than  Sir  Charles  Blake. 

Neither  he  nor  Anne  referred  to  the  subject  again. 
They  were  both  on  their  best  behaviour  and  very 
kind  to  each  other :  Anne,  because  she  thought 
Gilbert  would  probably  alter  his  mind  and  accompany 
her  to  Norfolk  ;  Gilbert,  because  he  had  no  intention 
of  doing  so.  She  only  realised  she  and  Phil  were 
going  alone  at  the  last  moment ;  and  it  was  rather 


ANNE  135 

a  sullen  little  face  she  put  up  to  be  kissed  when 
Gilbert  saw  them  off  at  St.  Pancras  ;  but  Phil  was 
happy,  and  so  vociferous  and  excited  that  her  silent 
displeasure  was  not  conspicuous.  Phil  seemed  to 
consider  that  the  authority  of  his  nurse  lapsed  in 
places  like  railway  stations  which  were  ruled  over  by 
superior  beings  in  uniforms.  Anne  never  could 
manage  him,  and  Gilbert,  preventing  him  by  physical 
force  from  diving  down  between  the  train  and  the 
platform  to  watch  the  axles  of  the  wheels  being 
greased,  and  from  climbing  up  to  pull  the  communica- 
tion cord  with  the  aspiration  of  starting  the  train 
prematurely,  and  from  escaping  altogether  in  the 
direction  of  the  engine  to  strike  up  an  acquaintance 
with  the  driver,  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears  nor  leisure 
to  perceive  that  Anne  was  sulking.  He  kissed  her 
with  precisely  the  same  mixture  of  affection  and 
distraction  and  haste  with  which  he  kissed  Phil  and 
his  last  words  were  :  "  Take  care  of  them  both, 
Nurse,"  as  he  shut  them  in  their  carriage  and  walked 
away. 

Anne's  annoyance  had  missed  fire.  She  decided 
to  impress  it  upon  Gilbert  by  not  writing  to  him,  and 
was  disconcerted  when  he  blunted  the  effect  of  this 
treatment  by  not  writing  to  her  :  he  sent  her  his  love 
on  picture  postcards  addressed  to  Phil,  and  messages 
to  say  he  had  no  news.  As  she  couldn't  work  off  her 
displeasure  on  Gilbert  she  punished  John,  who  was 
her  fellow-guest  at  the  Dalliacs  for  the  Easter 
holidays.  She  couldn't  quarrel  with  him,  for  he  only 
looked  worried  and  distressed  when  she  tried  to  ;  but 
she  tormented  him  by  professing  the  most  outrageous 
sentiments  upon  whatever  subject  came  up  for 
discussion.  She  began  at  breakfast. 


136  ANNE 

"  It  is  a  wet  day,"  Juliet  observed.  "  What  shall 
we  do  ?  " 

"  Let's  shock  John,"  suggested  Anne,  with  a  little 
blue  flame  of  impishness  in  her  eyes ;  and  she  pro- 
ceeded to  do  it.  She  knew  exactly  what  opinions 
and  affectations  he  hated  most,  and  without  actually 
hurting  his  feelings,  she  managed  to  make  him 
thoroughly  unhappy.  Then  she  realised  that  she  was 
quite  spoiling  his  short  holiday  and  relented,  and 
made  amends  by  being  very  sympathetic.  She  let 
him  show  her  his  two  new  treasures,  two  examples  of 
fine  printing,  one  from  the  Doves  Press,  and  a  copy 
of  the  Minor  Poems  of  Milton  from  the  Ashendene 
Press,  and  trebled  his  pleasure  in  them  by  sharing 
it. 

"  Why  do  people  make  ugly  things  when  it  is  just 
as  easy  to  make  beautiful  things  ?  "  she  wondered. 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  just  as  easy,"  he  demurred. 
"  You  might  just  as  well  say,  why  do  people  do  or 
say  stupid  or  unkind  things  when  it  is  just  as  easy  to 
do  or  say  wise  and  good  things." 

"  It  isn't  a  bit  the  same,"  she  argued. 

"  Yes  it  is.  To  get,  or  take,  a  right  line  means 
knowledge  and  trouble  and  pains,  and  that  means 
sacrificing  time  and  thought  and  oneself — whether 
your  line  is  physical  or  mental  or  moral." 

"  We're  talking  about  beauty.  Morals  and  beauty 
have  nothing  to  do  with  each  other.  Lots  of  very 
moral  people  think  beautiful  things  rather  wrong, 
they  think  it  wrong  to  sacrifice  time  and  thought  to 
them." 

"  That's  because  only  one  part  of  them  is  moral. 
And  when  artists  who  create  beautiful  things  are 
immoral,  it's  their  limitations  that's  the  matter,  it's 


ANNE  137 

because  only  part  of  them  cares  for  beauty — not  that 
morality  isn't  good  enough  for  them,  which  is  the 
way  some  of  them  talk." 

The  two  fair  heads  pored  over  the  printed  pages. 
Anne's  loose  pale  gold  hair  touched  John's  rough 
brown  curls,  and  their  hostess  smiled  at  their  absorp- 
tion in  the  book  she  considered  uninteresting.  She  was 
embroidering  a  pinafore  for  her  youngest  daughter, 
and  was  thankful  that  her  guests  had  left  off  squab- 
bling and  were  happy  together. 

John  went  back  to  London  on  the  Tuesday  after 
Easter,  and  Anne  went  to  the  station  to  see  him  off, 
and  picked  a  bunch  of  white  violets  for  him  and 
pinned  them  in  his  buttonhole.  Then  she  walked 
back  across  the  fields.  Juliet  was  busy  with  her 
domestic  affairs  and  had  stayed  comfortably  at 
home. 

It  was  a  cold  windy  day.  A  sharp  east  wind  chased 
masses  of  clouds  swiftly  across  a  green-blue  sky,  and 
whistled  through  the  still  leafless  hedges  as  if  it  were 
in  a  hurry  to  dry  up  the  sodden  wet  fields.  A  faint 
soft  green  showed  on  the  woods  in  the  distance,  like 
green  smoke  blowing  through  the  trees,  and  here  and 
there  a  wild  cherry  tree  was  in  blossom,  a  lovely, 
lonely  white  thing.  All  the  birds  were  busy  nesting 
and  singing,  and  primroses,  pale  yellow  clusters  of 
stars,  grew  in  sheltered  corners.  Anne  gathered  a 
handful,  and  some  branches  of  willow  catkins  grow- 
ing by  a  stream,  a  stream  she  had  to  cross.  She  had 
been  this  way  before  with  Gilbert,  only  then  it  had 
been  September,  and  the  stream  had  been  a  slow 
trickle  of  water  almost  asleep  in  its  bed  :  now  it  was 
a  swift  brown  brook  swollen  by  the  winter  rains.  The 
plank  by  which  she  had  crossed  before  was  either 


138  ANNE 

submerged  or  swept  away,  there  was  only  a  narrow 
thin  one,  much  higher  on  the  bank.  Anne  did  not 
like  the  bridge,  the  racing  water  below  made  her 
giddy.  It  was  only  about  eight  or  nine  feet  to  venture, 
but  she  was  nervous.  Twice  she  tried  to  step  from 
the  bank  on  to  the  swaying  plank,  and  twice  she 
drew  back,  furious  with  herself  but  not  daring  to  go 
forward.  The  brook  fed  a  river,  a  slow  shallow  trout 
stream  which  it  joined  a  few  yards  away.  The  plank 
was  the  only  means  of  getting  across.  On  the  river- 
bank  where  the  streams  met  was  a  man  fly-fishing. 
As  Anne  stood  hesitating  a  cock  pheasant  started  up, 
almost  from  under  her  feet,  and  took  wing  with  a 
loud  indignant  shriek  that  startled  her  so  she  nearly 
fell  into  the  stream.  It  startled  the  fisherman  too. 
He  turned  round  and  saw  Anne,  an  arresting  little 
figure  in  a  bright  green  frieze  coat  and  skirt  and  hat, 
with  her  hands  full  of  flowers.  He  divined  her  diffi- 
culty as  she  stood  there  looking  helplessly  at  the 
plank,  and  laid  down  his  rod. 

"  Wait  a  second,"  he  called.    "  I'm  coming." 

He  crossed  the  plank  to  her  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  Give  me  both  yours,  and  don't  look  down  at  the 
water."  As  she  still  hesitated,  he  said  :  "Or  shall 
I  carry  you  across  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  coming,"  said  Anne.  He  held  her  firmly 
and  drew  her  slowly  across  the  swaying  bridge.  His 
grasp  gave  her  confidence. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  when  she  was  safely  on  the 
other  side. 

She  walked  a  few  steps  from  him,  then  resolutely 
turned  round.  "It  is  very  silly  of  me.  I'm  going 
back  again  by  myself." 


ANNE  139 

"  That  you're  not  I  "  he  declared  emphatically, 
barring  her  way. 

"  Yes  I  am,"  she  persisted.  "  I'm  not  going  to  be 
defeated  by  a  mere  plank." 

"  You're  not,"  he  said.  "  You're  going  to  be 
defeated  by  a  mere  man.  It  would  be  extremely 
foolish  to  put  a  superfluous  strain  on  your  nerves  for 
no  reason.  I  won't  countenance  it.  I'm  a  doctor." 

"  You're  not  my  doctor,"  said  Anne  ;  as  he  did 
not  move  from  her  path  she  asked  :  "  Why  don't  you 
go  on  with  your  fishing  ?  " 

**  I've  finished  fishing.  I'm  going  to  escort  you 
back  to  your  mother." 

"  I  haven't  got  a  mother." 

"  I'm  sorry.  I  was  speaking  figuratively.  I'm 
going  to  take  you  safely  back  to  whoever  you  do 
belong  to." 

"  I  belong  to  myself,"  said  Anne  with  dignity. 
They  eyed  each  other.  He  looked  at  her  whimsically, 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  rather  sleepy  grey  eyes.  He  was 
not  tall,  only  about  half  a  head  taller  than  Anne,  and 
he  stooped  ;  their  eyes  were  almost  on  a  level.  He 
was  a  man  of  about  fifty,  broad-shouldered  and  lean, 
dressed  in  a  shabby  tweed  suit.  Anne  instinctively 
liked  the  tribute  paid  her  by  the  expression  of 
admiration  in  his  eyes,  and  she  liked  his  finely  cut, 
thin,  long-fingered  hands.  A  fair  moustache  hid  his 
mouth.  They  faced  each  other ;  he  was  resolute, 
she  was  defiant.  Then,  as  she  realised  she  could 
neither  evade  his  determination  nor  stand  there 
indefinitely  quarrelling  with  a  stranger,  she  capitu- 
lated and  turned  round. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.  "  I'm  going  home.  But  I 
shall  come  this  way  to-morrow." 


140  ANNE 

"  Good,"  he  said.    "  What  time  shall  you  come  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  she  smiled  and  coloured. 
"  As  if  I  should  tell  you  !  " 

"  I  spend  most  of  the  day  fishing,"  he  explained. 
He  was  walking  beside  her  and  she  was  wondering 
how  to  get  rid  of  him  and  in  no  particular  hurry  to 
do  so.  In  the  absence  of  Gilbert,  and  John,  and 
Lawrence  Ackroyd,  and  everyone  else,  she  did  not 
object  to  starting  a  gentle  evasive  flirtation  with  the 
village  doctor.  It  evidently  amused  and  delighted 
him  and  it  did  not  hurt  her.  He  talked  about  fishing  : 
he  had  travelled,  caught  salmon  in  Norway,  mahseer 
in  India,  and  tarpon  in  Florida.  By  the  time  they 
had  reached  the  high  road  she  was  interested  and 
friendly. 

"  My  husband  is  fishing  in  Scotland,"  she  said. 

"  And  you're  making  for  Crane  Hall.  Are  you 
Mrs.  Gilbert  Trevor  ?  " 

"  How  did  you  guess  ?  " 

It  seemed  he  was  not  the  village  doctor. 

"  I'm  putting  up  at  the  inn  in  the  village.  My 
landlady  waits  on  me,  and  she  has  a  capacious 
interest  in  her  fellow-men  and  a  restless  tongue.  I 
not  only  know  who  is  staying  up  at  "  the  house,"  as 
she  calls  your  place,  but  all  about  them,  even  what 
you  have  for  breakfast,  lunch,  and  dinner.  So  may 
I  introduce  myself  ?  My  name  is  Musgrave.  Your 
tenant  sublets  the  fishing  to  me.  May  I  come  and 
call  one  afternoon,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

Anne  supposed  he  could.  Before  they  parted  at 
the  gate,  he  had  offered  to  teach  her  to  cast  a  fly,  and 
to  lend  her  a  book  on  fishing.  Anne  was  always 
ready  to  be  taught  anything,  and  to  read  any  book 
anybody  recommended. 


ANNE  141 

At  lunch  she  informed  Juliet  that  she  had  made 
friends  with  the  fishing  tenant. 

"  A  Mr.  Musgrave,"  she  said.  "  He's  coming  to 
call  and  he's  going  to  teach  me  fishing." 

"  You  mean  Sir  Bradley  Musgrave  ?  He's  the 
great  surgeon  ypu  know."  Juliet  wrinkled  up  her 
forehead,  she  never  frowned  but  she  looked  puzzled. 
"  He's  rather  mad,  I  believe." 

"  You  don't  mean  he's  insane  ?  "  enquired  Anne. 

"  Oh  no  :  but  he  is  queer.  William  doesn't  like 
him  much." 

In  fact  when  William  Dalliac  arrived  from  a  so- 
journ in  Bath  and  found  that  his  young  guest  was 
being  taught  fishing  assiduously  by  the  celebrated 
surgeon,  he  was  annoyed,  and  fumed  at  Juliet. 

"  The  man  is  very  fast — a  notorious  bad  lot.  He 
isn't  at  all  a  fitting  person  for  Anne  to  associate  with. 
I  don't  like  her  fishing  with  him  while  she's  under 
our  roof.  You  must  put  a  stop  to  it,  Juliet." 

Juliet  looked  frankly  alarmed  and  doubtful. 

"  How  ?  "  she  enquired.  "  You  know  how  mad 
Anne  is  !  And  she's  keen  on  it,  the  fishing  I  mean." 

"  Why  doesn't  her  husband  stay  and  look  after 
her  himself,  instead  of  running  after  other  men's 
wives  ?  "  he  asked  impatiently.  "Any  way,  Juliet, 
you  must  tell  her  that  there  have  been  some  very 
nasty  scandals  about  him.  He  is  unmarried,  has  a 
little  house  on  the  Chilterns,  goes  down  there  for 
week-ends,  and  there  have  been  some  very  ugly 
stories.  He  thinks  any  pretty  woman  fair  game. 
Anne  is  too  young.  He'll  follow  her  up  in  London 
and  get  her  talked  about.  You  must  warn  her." 

Very  reluctantly  Juliet  broached  the  subject  the 
next  day,  when  the  innkeeper's  son  brought  up  a 


142  ANNE 

parcel  of  books  "  for  Mrs.  Trevor,  with  Sir  Bradley 
Musgrave's  compliments."  Anne  curled  up  on  the 
dining-room  window-seat,  undecided  which  to  devour 
first. 

"  Isn't  it  nice  of  him  ?  "  she  asked,  as  pleased  as 
a  child  with  a  parcel  of  new  toys. 

"  You  know,  Anne  dear,  William  doesn't  like  him," 
Juliet  began. 

"  Well,  then,  I  won't  ask  them  to  dinner  to  meet 
each  other,"  said  Anne  amiably. 

"  Are  you  going  to  see  more  of  him  in  London  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Anne.  "He's  awfully 
interesting  :  he  was  telling  me  all  about  eels  yester- 
day. Do  you  know  that  eels  are  the  most  extra- 
ordinary fish  ?  They  go  down  to  the  deep  sea  to 
breed  and  they  never  come  back." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  Anne  !  I  don't  believe  anything 
so  mad.  And  William  says  he  doesn't  think  you 
ought  to  be  very  nice  to  him." 

"  Why  not  ?  He's  very  nice  to  me.  And  it  is  true 
about  eels." 

Juliet  stared  at  her,  and  then  decided  that  Anne 
wasn't  trying  to  change  the  conversation,  but  was 
genuinely  interested  in  eels,  incredible  as  it  seemed. 

"  He  really  is  a  bit  too  mad,  Anne.  He  has  an 
awfully  bad  reputation." 

"  I  thought  he  must  be  clever,  he's  got  dozens  of 
letters  after  his  name — the  whole  alphabet." 

"  I  don't  mean  his  professional  reputation,  of 
course  he's  the  cleverest  scientist  in  London  ;  I  mean 
his  morals." 

"  Oh  I  see,"  said  Anne  carelessly. 

"  There  have  been  scandals,"  continued  Juliet, 
rather  embarrassed  but  obeying  her  husband. 


ANNE  143 

"  You  mean  he's  been  divorced  ?  " 

"  He  isn't  married.  Anne  don't  be  a  baby,  and 
don't  be  obstinate.  He  isn't  at  all  a  nice  man,  and 
I'm  sure  Gilbert  won't  like  you  to  make  friends  with 
him." 

"  I'm  sure  Gilbert  won't  mind,"  said  Anne.  "  He 
knows  I  can  take  care  of  myself." 

And  at  the  happy  thought  that  she  might  have 
found  a  new  way  of  annoying  Gilbert,  she  flirted 
with  Sir  Bradley  Musgrave  with  zest  until  Lawrence 
Ackroyd  came  down  and  monopolised  her  himself. 
His  method  of  managing  Anne  was  successful.  He 
didn't  criticise  her  new  friend  ;  he  merely  made  it 
quite  clear  that  he  wanted  her  time  and  attention 
himself,  and  bribed  her  to  give  him  both  by  promis- 
ing to  teach  her  to  drive  his  new  motor-car.  When 
it  came  to  the  point  Anne  didn't  like  driving  herself, 
so  he  motored  her  and  Juliet  all  over  the  county. 
He  never  flirted  with  her,  he  bought  her  chocolates 
and  paid  her  the  compliment  of  taking  her  into  his 
confidence.  Somehow  her  somewhat  childlike  interest 
in  everything  unlocked  his  reserve.  He  admitted  her 
into  the  inner  sanctuary  of  his  soul  as  he  would  have 
admitted  a  gentle  child  into  a  secret  garden,  a  little 
afraid  that  she  might  innocently  do  some  damage, 
but  feeling  repaid  by  the  pleasure  of  her  presence 
there. 

The  memories  of  their  excursions  in  those  windy, 
clear  April  days  always  remained  with  him  as 
exquisite  possessions.  In  after  years,  when  he 
thought  of  spring  he  saw  it  incarnate  in  Anne ; 
everything  else,  the  budding  trees,  the  fields  starred 
with  constellations  of  daisies  and  dandelions,  the 
knots  of  blossom  on  sunlit  walls,  crimson  japonica, 


144  ANNE 

pink  peach,  white  plum  blossom,  the  blue  and  white 
tangles  of  speedwell  and  daisies  by  the  roadside, 
were  only  illuminated  borders  round  pictures  of 
Anne. 


CHAPTER   XI 

ANNE  was  a  little  chagrined  when  she  returned  to 
London  and  to  Gilbert  and  announced  that  she  too 
had  been  fishing,  to  find  that  he  raised  no  objection 
to  her  continuing  her  acquaintance  with  Sir  Bradley 
Musgrave.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  resent 
his  interference  by  way  of  asserting  her  independence, 
and  was  nonplussed  when  she  found  it  remained 
unchallenged.  However  Gilbert  had  the  most 
implicit  confidence  in  the  protective  quality  of  her 
temper  ;  moreover,  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  raise 
contentious  subjects  by  criticising  any  friends  she 
chose  to  make  lest  she  should  retaliate  by  pointing 
out  that  he  was  seeing  a  very  great  deal  of  Laura 
Blake.  He  was.  He  accounted  for  this  to  himself 
by  reminding  himself  of  the  urgency  of  his  need  for 
making  money,  and  of  the  hope  that  somehow 
Charles  Blake  might  be  useful.  He  frequented  their 
house  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  in  touch  with  his 
host  with  the  intention  of  approaching  the  subject 
when  a  suitable  opportunity  came.  And  when  his 
intention  remained  an  intention  instead  of  crystallis- 
ing into  a  resolution  he  explained  it  to  himself  by 
his  reluctance  to  be  under  an  obligation  to  such  a 
bounder  as  Charles  Blake,  his  disapproval  of  specula- 
tive methods  of  making  money,  and  his  doubts  of 
the  impeccability  of  the  financier's  methods  (those 

1.  '45 


146  ANNE 

fastidious  scruples  were  genuine  and  he  felt  they  were 
laudable).  He  really  worried  a  good  deal  over  the 
matter,  and  he  persuaded  himself  that  Anne  ought 
to  sympathise  with  him  for  worrying  and  respect  him 
for  keeping  the  fact  from  her.  A  s  she  did  not  display 
any  particular  concern  at  the  moment  and  took  life 
as  cheerfully  as  usual  he  felt  she  was  ungrateful.  He 
said  to  himself  that  Anne  took  everything  as  a  matter 
of  course.  She  certainly  took  everything  pleasant  as 
a  matter  of  course.  She  skilfully  evaded  getting 
inveigled  into  any  engagement  that  bored  her,  and 
accepted  every  invitation  that  amused  her.  It 
amused  her  to  be  taken  out  to  lunch  at  the  most 
fashionable  hotels  and  restaurants  by  Sir  Bradley 
Musgrave,  for  he  knew  everybody  in  London  ;  and 
it  also  amused  her  when  she  began  to  meet  him  at 
dances,  for  he  didn't  dance.  He  was  interesting  and 
very  useful,  and  she  was  quite  pleased  that  he  was 
willing  to  be  appropriated  in  the  same  way  as  John 
and  Lawrence  Ackroyd  :  and  the  knowledge  that  it 
was  a  different  way  came  to  her  as  a  shock  one  night 
in  June  when,  at  a  ball,  he  kissed  her.  The  dance 
was  in  Onslow  Square  and  she  was  sitting  out  with 
him  in  the  gardens  at  the  back  of  the  house,  the  dark- 
ness was  punctuated  with  the  glowworm-like  flicker 
of  fairy  lights.  She  was  begging  him  to  take  her  and 
Phil  to  the  Zoo  on  the  following  Sunday  afternoon, 
and  he  was  trying  to  extract  a  promise  from  her 
instead  that  she  would  come  down  to  lunch  with  him 
at  his  house  in  Buckinghamshire  and  be  introduced 
to  his  sister  ;  then  suddenly  she  felt  his  arm  round 
her  shoulders.  She  drew  back  her  head  but  he  held 
her  and  kissed  her  twice.  She  sprang  up,  too  angry 
to  speak,  and  when  he  tried  to  catch  hold  of  her 


ANNE  147 

again  she  struck  his  hand  away  with  her  clenched 
fist  and  almost  ran  towards  the  house.  He  was 
really  surprised  ;  he  thought  she  expected  him  to  kiss 
her — most  women  liked  it,  that  was  his  experience — 
and  he  believed  her  to  be  coquetting  until  he  saw  her 
face  in  the  light  that  streamed  into  the  garden  from 
the  conservatory.  She  had  struck  at  him  with  all  her 
strength  too,  and  the  diamond  in  her  ring  had  cut 
his  hand  and  drawn  blood. 

"  I  didn't  think  you'd  behave  like  a  little  prudish 
schoolgirl,"  he  remonstrated  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 
"  Look  what  you've  done  to  my  hand  !  " 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  said  wrathfully.  "  I  hope  I've 
hurt  you  very  much."  And  she  walked  up  the  steps, 
leaving  him  feeling  both  foolish  and  annoyed — 
annoyed  with  her,  not  with  himself. 

As  she  stepped  into  the  conservatory  she  met 
Lawrence  Ackroyd,  who  was  looking  for  her  ;  she  had 
promised  him  the  next  dance.  It  was  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning  and  she  had  been  dancing  for  four 
hours.  It  was  a  hot  airless  night,  and  the  conserva- 
tory was  full  of  heavily  scented  lillies  and  orchids. 
She  felt  suddenly  tired,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"  I  want  to  go  home,"  she  said  appealingly.  "  I 
can't  dance  any  more." 

"  Let  me  fetch  you  something  to  drink." 

"  No — but  please  find  Gilbert  for  me  and  tell  him 
I've  a  headache." 

She  wondered  why  he  looked  at  her  anxiously  as 
he  turned  away  ;  there  seemed  to  be  both  suspicion 
and  pity  in  his  kind  eyes.  She  wondered  uneasily 
whether  he  could  possibly  have  seen  her  being  kissed 
in  the  garden  ;  she  sat  there  hating  the  man  for 
having  dared  to  touch  her  when  she  hadn't  wanted 


148  ANNE 

him  to.  Lawrence  Ackroyd  hadn't  seen  that,  but 
he  had  noticed  that  Gilbert  was  sitting  out  in  a  dark 
secluded  corner  upstairs  with  Lady  Blake,  and  he 
wondered  whether  Anne  was  suffering  a  pang  of 
jealousy  ;  she  looked  white  and  uneasy,  and  not 
happy.  But  a  headache  was  a  sufficient  explanation 
both  for  him  and  for  Gilbert  whom  he  routed  out 
with  alacrity.  Anne  was  subject  to  sudden  nervous 
headaches. 

*'  Poor  kid  ! "  said  Gilbert  when  he  was  informed. 
He  jumped  up  and  left  his  partner  with  a  quick 
apology.  "  They're  beastly  things,  Anne's  head- 
aches. She  collapses  utterly." 

He  ran  downstairs  to  fetch  Anne's  cloak.  Lawrence 
Ackroyd  noted  with  satisfaction  both  Lady  Blake's 
obvious  vexation  and  Gilbert's  tender  care  of  Anne, 
who  turned  to  him  with  the  docile  dependence  of  a 
very  tired  child. 

The  next  day  she  received  a  note  : 

*     "  DEAR  MRS.  TREVOR, 

Please  accept  my  apologies  for  offending  you. 
If  I  lost  my  head  remember  that  it  was  you  who 
turned  it,  so  will  you  come  to  the  Zoological 
Gardens  with  me  on  Sunday  as  a  token  of  your 
forgiveness  ?  Yours  very  sincerely, 

BRADLEY  MUSGRAVE." 

Anne  scrumpled  it  up  angrily  and  tossed  it  into  the 
waste-paper  basket. 

Phil  had  a  habit  of  ransacking  the  waste-paper 
basket  in  search  of  useful  treasures.  He  found  the 
letter.  It  was  written  on  a  large  sheet  of  very  good 
thick  notepaper,  so  he  smoothed  out  the  creases 


ANNE  149 

with  a  careful  sticky  hand,  and  took  it  to  his  father 
with  the  request  to  have  it  made  into  a  paper  boat. 

"  Let's  see  what  it  is,  sonny."  Gilbert  read  it, 
and  said,  "  Look  here,  Phil,  you  must  not  take 
people's  letters." 

He  tore  the  letter  in  pieces,  and  Phil  gave  a  despair- 
ing wail. 

"  I'll  make  you  a  boat  out  of  The  Times,"  promised 
Gilbert. 

"  No,  I  wanted  a  likkle  boat !  "  roared  Phil 
indignantly. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Anne,  looking  in 
at  the  door.  She  was  going  out,  but  was  arrested 
by  the  voice  of  her  infuriated  son. 

"  Daddy  has  tored  up  my  boat." 

"  The  child  had  picked  a  letter  of  yours  out  of  the 
waste-paper  basket,"  explained  Gilbert.  "  A  note 
from  Musgrave.  I've  torn  it  up,  and  I  should  advise 
you  to  do  the  same  in  the  future.  Shut  up,  Phil  ! 
Here's  sixpence,  go  out  with  nurse  and  buy  a  beastly 
boat." 

"  Shan't  buy  a  beastly  boat.  I  shall  buy  a  nice 
boat,  a  paddle  steamer  wif  a  turbine  engine  and  a 
funnel." 

"  You  do  spoil  that  child,"  said  Anne,  as  Phil 
darted  away,  dry-eyed  and  smiling.  She  came  into 
the  room  and  glanced  quickly  at  Gilbert,  her  head 
held  higher  than  usual,  her  eyes  defiant,  her  lips  half 
parted.  She  was  ready  to  fly  into  a  rage  if  he  found 
fault  with  her,  and  to  melt  into  tears  if  he  was 
sympathetic,  and  until  she  found  out  whether  she  was 
going  to  be  scolded  or  petted  she  bore  herself  proudly, 
hating  the  situation.  He  asked  : 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  Zoo  on  Sunday  ?  " 


150  ANNE 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  said. 

"  Just  as  well  perhaps,"  said  Gilbert.  "  He's  a  bit 
of  a  blackguard."  He  eyed  her  quizzically  and  said, 
"  I  suppose  he  tried  to  kiss  you  ?  " 

Anne  nodded.     Gilbert  looked  rather  amused. 

"  If  you  will  flirt  with  that  type  of  man.  ..." 
He  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  I  hate  that  sort  of  thing,"  Anne  said  fiercely. 
"  I've  not  answered  his  letter." 

"  I  dare  say  he'll  get  over  it.  You're  not  the  only 
pretty  woman  he's  made  love  to,  by  all  accounts." 

Anne  felt  as  if  the  wind  were  taken  out  of  her 
sails — if  a  little  yacht  on  such  occasions  feels  baffled, 
lonely,  and  a  lost  sense  of  direction.  She  also  felt 
humiliation  ;  but  whether  it  was  the  remains  of  the 
sense  of  humiliation  from  the  night  before,  or  a  fresh 
humiliation  because  Gilbert  seemed  to  take  her 
distress  lightly,  she  could  not  have  explained.  He 
changed  the  conversation  by  saying  : 

"  Is  that  a  new  frock,  you  extravagant  little 
minx  ?  " 

"  It's  only  a  muslin." 

"  Well,  I  warn  you,  Anne,  I've  overdrawn  my 
account." 

"  I  haven't  this  year,  I've  been  awfully  economi- 
cal." 

"  It  doesn't  look  like  it." 

"  But  you  don't  want  me  to  look  like  it,  do  you  ?  " 

It  was  a  very  fine  summer.  In  July  there  came 
a  fortnight  of  thunderstorms  and  damp  sultry  heat. 
Phil,  who  usually  seemed  to  be  compounded  of 
quicksilver  and  steel  springs,  flagged  and  was  peevish 
and  languid.  Anne  grew  pale,  and  Gilbert  persuaded 
her  to  take  the  child  into  the  country  to  Francesca. 


ANNE  151 

He  had  a  case  coming  on,  and  couldn't  leave  London 
till  the  end  of  the  month. 

"  We'll  shut  up  the  house  and  I'll  live  at  my  Club," 
he  said  ;  "  it  will  save  money." 

Down  in  the  country  it  was  almost  as  hot  as  in 
London.  But  the  nights  were  cool,  there  was  sha'de 
in  the  garden,  and  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  scent 
of  hay  and  honeysuckle  by  day,  and  with  stocks  and 
nicotines  in  the  evening  when  Francesca  watered  her 
parched  flowers.  Phil  revived  and  romped  in  the  hay- 
fields  all  day,  and  was  allowed  to  stay  up  later  than 
usual  and  play  with  the  hose,  and  get  very  wet  and 
very  much  in  the  way.  His  daily  ambition  was  to 
water  the  birds  on  the  lawn,  the  thrushes  and  black- 
birds and  starlings  who,  emboldened  by  thirst,  came 
down  in  little  flocks  to  drink  from  the  pools  the  dry 
turf  was  too  hard  to  suck  up  quickly.  Francesca 
was  delighted  to  have  them  earlier  than  she  had 
anticipated,  for  she  had  arranged  to  go  to  Norway 
for  August,  leaving  Gilbert  and  Anne  in  possession 
of  her  house  and  servants  ;  and  she  was  glad  to  have 
Anne  and  Phil  to  herself  for  a  little  while.  She 
decided  that  Anne  had  not  grown  any  older  since 
the  first  day  she  had  seen  her,  the  tired,  shy,  travel- 
stained  child  Gilbert  had  brought  home  with  such 
anxious  pride  ;  in  all  essentials  she  was  as  young 
as  ever,  as  young  as  Phil.  In  those  hot  midsummer 
days  Francesca  sometimes  felt  as  if  she  had  two  little 
boys  of  five  years  old  as  her  guests,  instead  of  one 
little  boy  and  his  mother.  Phil  seemed  to  regard  his 
mother  as  a  contemporary  rather  than  as  an  adult. 
If  he  was  naughty,  his  mischievous  eyes  looked  at 
Anne  in  curiosity  to  see  how  she  was  taking  it,  not 
abashed  in  quest  of  reproof. 


152  ANNE 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  settled  to  go  on  this  cruise," 
Francesca  said  one  morning  at  breakfast.  "I  should 
enjoy  myself  much  more  at  home  with  you  all. 
Which  day  does  Gilbert  come  down  ?  " 

Anne  had  a  letter  from  him  in  her  hand,  and  she 
looked  up  from  it  with  rueful  eyes. 

"  He  doesn't  say,"  she  said  slowly.  "  He's  been 
invited  to  go  to  Cowes  for  the  Regatta  week  on  the 
Blakes'  yacht,  and  he's  going." 

"  I'm  sorry,  I  suppose  I  shall  miss  him  then." 
Francesca  saw  that  Anne  was  disappointed,  and  her 
own  regret  at  missing  part  of  his  visit  was  compen- 
sated for  by  the  revelation  that  a  few  days'  separation 
could  still  depress  Anne.  Certainly  the  marriage 
had  turned  out  very  well,  she  reflected,  as  she  turned 
to  intervene  between  Phil  and  the  honey. 

"It  is  meant  to  be  taken  internally,  darling,  not 
applied  externally  as  an  ointment,  the  way  you're 
doing.  Let  me  help  you." 

Anne  was  disappointed  because  she  would  have 
liked  to  go  to  Cowes.  She  thought  that  the  Blakes 
might  have  invited  her  ;  she  would  have  conquered 
her  dislike  of  them  for  the  occasion.  She  tore  up 
the  letter,  and  said  crossly  : 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Francesca,  don't  give  that 
messy  child  any  more  honey  !  " 

"  Put  some  marmalade  on  top  of  the  honey," 
Phil  suggested ;  "  that  won't  make  it  nearly  so 
sticky."  As  this  amendment  was  not  carried  he 
filled  his  mouth  full  and  ransacked  his  brain  for 
another  contentious  subject.  He  never  let  the 
conversation  flag.  "Nanny  says  that  Joseph  was  a 
man,"  he  announced.  "  I  mean  Joseph  wif  all  those 
lots  of  brothers." 


ANNE  153 

"  Of  course  he  was  a  man,"  said  Anne.  "  What 
did  you  suppose  he  was  ?  " 

"  Well,  Francesca  told  me  he  had  a  coat  of  many 
colours,  so  of  course  I  fought  he  was  a  lady." 

Anne  laughed. 

"  Look  here,  Francesca,  if  you're  going  to  teach 
the  child  Scripture  you  must  stay  here  and  take  the 
consequences — not  go  off  to  Norway  and  leave  me 
to  deal  with  the  results." 

"  It  will  be  a  nice  occupation  for  Gilbert,"  said 
Francesca,  as  Phil  escaped  into  the  garden  through 
the  window. 

"  I'm  sure  Gilbert  doesn't  know  anything  about  it." 

"  My  dear  child  !  Every  educated  man  knows  the 
Bible." 

"  Oh  well,  perhaps  the  stories  ..." 

Francesca  sailed  for  Norway  on  August  6th. 
Everybody  seemed  to  be  going  abroad  this  year, 
Anne  thought,  except  herself.  The  Dalliacs  were  at 
Aix-les-Bains;  Lawrence  Ackroyd  was  in  the  Pyrenees; 
everyone  else  either  at  Marienbad  or  in  Switzerland. 
John  remained  in  London  and  hoped  to  go  away  for 
a  holiday  in  September.  Anne  was  resigning  herself 
to  a  dutiful  domestic  August  that  would  be  rather 
dull.  It  was  too  hot  for  Gilbert's  ways  of  amusing 
himself  in  the  country.  While  she  was  lazily  ponder- 
ing over  the  problem  in  a  deck-chair  in  the  shade  of 
the  trees  on  the  parched  lawn,  a  letter  from  Gilbert 
was  brought  out  to  her. 

"  ON  BOARD  THE  '  BRITOMART,' 

~  EAST  COWES. 

DEAREST  ANNE, 

I'm  glad  to  hear  from  Francesca  that  you 
and  Phil  look  better  for  the  change.    I'm  having 


154  ANNE 

quite  a  good  time.  It  is  amusing  here  though  the 
races  themselves  are  a  bit  slow  to  watch,  there 
hasn't  been  enough  wind.  Blake  is  taking  the 
Britomart  for  a  cruise  up  to  the  West  Coast  of 
Scotland,  and  they've  asked  me  to  go  along  too. 
I've  often  wanted  to  do  the  trip,  and  it  seems  as 
if  we're  in  for  a  really  fine  August,  so  I  thought 
I  might  as  well  accept  the  invitation.  We  shall 
only  be  gone  about  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks, 
so  I'll  join  you  towards  the  end  of  the  month.  We 
shall  put  in  at  Stranraer  for  letters,  and  then 
Oban,  but  I  can't  give  you  dates.  You  know  how 
it  is  when  one  is  more  or  less  dependent  upon 
wind  and  weather.  Love  to  Francesca,  yourself 
and  the  kid. 

Affectionately  yours, 

GILBERT." 

Francesca  was  taking  a  last  aimless  survey  of  her 
domain  before  driving  to  the  station  to  catch  her 
train. 

"  I  hope  everything  will  be  comfortable  for  you, 
dear,"  she  said  for  the  twentieth  time.  "  A  letter 
from  Gilbert  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Anne.    "  He  sends  you  his  love." 

She  refrained  from  telling  her  that  Gilbert  wasn't 
coming,  that  he  was  going  yachting.  She  could  not 
have  explained  why  she  refrained,  except  that  she 
wasn't  sure  that  her  voice  would  be  under  control : 
she  was  hurt  and  very  angry.  "  It  is  selfish  !  "  she 
said  to  herself  vehemently.  "  Frightfully  selfish  !  " 
But  whether  it  was  Gilbert's  selfishness  that  made 
her  hot  and  angry,  or  her  own  selfishness  in  being 
angry,  she  neither  knew  nor  cared.  She  was  jealous 


ANNE  155 

too,  but  she  wasn't  jealous  of  Lady  Blake,  she  was 
envious  of  the  yachting  expedition. 

Francesca  saw  that  she  looked  troubled  when  she 
said  good-bye  to  her,  and  appropriating  it  as  a  com- 
pliment, kissed  her  very  tenderly. 

"  She's  an  affectionate  darling  anyway,"  she 
thought  as  she  waved  to  the  pretty  little  creature. 


CHAPTER   XII 

FOR  three  days  Anne  pitied  herself  for  being  left  to 
spend  a  dull  holiday  in  the  depths  of  a  scorched 
country-side  with  only  the  companionship  of  Phil, 
and  the  servants,  and  the  Vicar's  wife,  who  came  to 
tea  and  tried  to  be  kind  to  her.  Then  she  would 
have  welcomed  all  the  dullness  in  the  world  with 
tears  of  relief,  for  Phil  was  ill.  He  cried,  and  com- 
plained of  a  pain  inside,  and  when  Anne  sent  for  the 
doctor  his  temperature  was  a  hundred  and  three. 
The  doctor,  who  was  a  kind  old  man,  but  slow  of 
speech  and  a  hard  drinker,  hesitated  over  his 
diagnosis.  After  two  days'  suspense,  as  Phil  still  lay 
with  flushed  cheeks,  either  whimpering  with  pain, 
or,  worse  still,  limp,  patient,  and  semi-conscious, 
Anne,  in  a  fury  of  impatience,  anxiety,  and  terror, 
decided  to  take  him  back  to  London,  where  she 
could  have  other  advice.  The  Vicar's  wife,  a  timid, 
fatalistic  lady,  remonstrated.  In  her  opinion  no 
doctors  understood  anything  about  children,  and 
the  honest  ones  said  so  ;  she  had  never  heard  of  a 
sick  child  being  taken  on  a  journey  to  London  ;  sick 
children  were  better  in  their  beds  and  in  country  air. 
But  the  doctor,  who  did  not  understand  the  case, 
and  was  afraid  of  Anne,  sanctioned  the  experiment. 
So  she  telegraphed  to  have  the  house  made  ready, 
and  Phil  was  wrapped  in  blankets  and  taken  home. 

156 


ANNE  157 

Anne  knew  as  much  about  illness  as  she  did  about 
the  language  of  ancient  Egypt.  She  knew  that  hiero- 
glyphics and  diseases  existed,  and  there  her  knowledge 
ended.  She  had  vaguely  hoped  that  the  journey 
might  have  "  done  Phil  good,"  but  when  their  own 
doctor  arrived  the  child's  temperature  was  104. 
Dr.  Langland  said  "  appendicitis,"  and  advised  an 
operation. 

Anne  turned  very  white. 

"  Oh  !    He's  too  little  !  "  she  said. 

"  Where  is  your  husband  ?  "  enquired  Dr.  Lang- 
land.  "  He  ought  to  be  sent  for." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  faltered.    "  He's  yachting." 

"  Well,  he's  spared  the  anxiety,"  he  said  kindly. 
"  But  don't  you  worry.  I'll  send  in  a  nurse.  Would 
you  like  a  second  opinion,  to  see  if  an  operation  is 
avoidable  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  !    Let's  have  a  children's  specialist." 

"  I'll  telephone  to  Woodward.  And  shall  I  settle 
up  with  him  about  his  fee  for  you  ?  " 

"  Please  do.  I've  very  little  money.  If  he  must 
have  the  operation,  who  is  the  best  surgeon  in 
London  ? " ' 

"  I  think  we'll  have  Ryland.  He's  a  clever  young 
man,  and  his  fee  won't  be  quite  so  stiff  as  one  of  those 
big  guns,  and  he'll  do  it  just  as  well." 

"  I  don't  care  a  bit  about  fees,"  said  Anne 
haughtily.  "If  he  must  be  operated  on,  it  must 
be  by  the  very  best  surgeon.  It  is  a  matter  of  life 
and  death." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said  soothingly. 
"  Of  course,  your  very  experienced  man  is  probably 
quicker,  and  that  counts  ;  but  otherwise,  the  care 
and  the  knowledge  ..." 


158  ANNE 

Anne  wasn't  listening. 

"  Isn't  Sir  Bradley  Musgrave  supposed  to  be  the 
best  surgeon  there  is  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  is  a  very  fine  big- wig,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  His  fees  are  exorbitant.  I  don't  think  that  for  a 
simple  case  of  appendicitis  it  would  be  necessary  to 
call  him  in.  It  really  is  a  very  easy  operation.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  could  do  it  myself.  I  have  done  it 
frequently,  only  you  wouldn't  trust  me."  He  tried 
to  reassure  her,  but  Anne  realised  he  was  being 
reassuring  and  discounted  every  word  he  said. 

Dr.  Woodward  arrived  that  evening,  examined 
the  child,  confirmed  the  diagnosis,  praised  the  treat- 
ment, changed  it  entirely  by  prescribing  the  applica- 
tion of  ice-bags  instead  of  hot  fomentations,  and 
advised  an  operation  if  the  symptoms  weren't 
materially  relieved  within  twenty-four  hours.  Phil, 
very  thin,  with  a  burning  spot  of  pink  on  each  cheek, 
was  delirious.  The  next  morning  his  temperature 
was  lower,  but  he  was  weaker  and  crying  with  pain. 
Anne,  white-faced,  with  black  shadows  under  her  eyes, 
insisted  upon  sending  for  Dr.  Woodward  again,  and 
when  the  specialist  repeated  his  advice  of  the  evening 
before  with  the  additional  recommendation  that 
Anne  should  have  some  food  and  rest  herself,  she 
waved  Dr.  Langland's  kindly  platitudes  aside,  and 
went  to  the  telephone. 

"  I  know  Sir  Bradley  Musgrave,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
going  to  ask  him  to  do  the  operation." 

Dr.  Langland  attempted  to  dissuade  her :  he 
thought  the  great  man  would  consider  him  a  fool  for 
bringing  him  to  Chelsea  for  such  a  simple  operation, 
and  he  did  not  feel  justified  in  allowing  her  to  incur 
an  avoidable  heavy  expense  because  she  was  panic- 


ANNE  159 

stricken.  He  was  a  kind-hearted,  sensible  man  :  in 
his  large  practice  the  expense  of  illness  and  an  opera- 
tion was  invariably  a  serious  consideration.  He  tried 
to  spare  his  patients  superfluous  expense  as  con- 
scientiously as  he  tried  to  save  them  unnecessary 
pain.  He  knew  the  Trevors  were  not  so  rich  that 
they  could  afford  to  disregard  elementary  common 
sense  over  money,  and  in  Gilbert's  absence  he  felt 
responsible  for  any  decision  that  was  made,  especially 
as  Anne  was  so  young  and  seemed  to  be  so  foolish. 

"  I  warn  you  his  fee  will  be  outrageous.  He  piles 
it  on  to  avoid  being  worked  to  death.  There  are 
dozens  of  capable  surgeons." 

Anne  turned  on  him  like  a  little  fury. 

"  I  don't  care  a  bit  what  it  costs  !  You  said  your- 
self it  made  a  difference  if  it  was  done  quickly." 
She  rang  up  180  Cavendish  Square. 

"  Is  Sir  Bradley  Musgrave  there  ?  "  she  asked 
nervously. 

He  was  not  there  :  he  had  gone  into  Buckingham- 
shire for  the  week-end  and  would  return  on  Sunday 
evening.  This  was  Saturday  morning.  She  turned 
indignantly  to  Dr.  Langland  : 

"  He's  not  there  !  He's  no  business  to  go  out  of 
London  like  this  when  people  may  be  ill  and  want 
him."  Then,  to  the  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the 
telephone,  she  said  :  "  Can  you  give  me  his  telephone 
number  ?  " 

"  His  line  is  out  of  order,  madam,"  was  the  answer. 
"  Can  I  give  any  message  ?  We  are  sending  Sir 
Bradley's  letters  and  messages  down  to  him  by 
train." 

"  What's  his  address  ?  " 

"  '  The  Retreat,'  Little  Hinton." 


160  ANNE 

"  Is  that  the  station  ?  " 

"  No,  madam  ;   Missenden  is  the  station." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  picked  up  the 
ABC  from  Gilbert's  writing-table. 

"  I  shall  go  down  and  ask  him  to  come  up  to  Phil 
at  once,"  she  said.  "  It  is  only  an  hour  in  the  train." 

"  If  you  absolutely  insist  on  having  him  why  not 
telegraph  ?  "  said  Dr.  Langland,  rather  vexed  that 
he  was  unable  to  influence  her. 

"  A  telegram  is  so  difficult,"  she  said  hesitatingly. 
"  And  I  shall  get  there  almost  as  quickly."  She  ran 
upstairs. 

"  I  do  look  a  fright,"  she  said  impatiently  as  she 
glanced  at  herself  in  the  glass  in  her  bedroom,  but 
she  had  time  to  change  her  clothes.  She  put  on  her 
prettiest  muslin  dress,  and  her  most  becoming  hat ; 
and  she  changed  her  shoes  and  stockings  for  ones 
that  matched  her  frock.  Then,  as  she  made  hay  in  a 
drawer  looking  for  a  clean  pair  of  gloves,  she  turned 
up  a  little  bottle  of  liquid  rouge  she  had  bought  to 
make  up  her  face  for  some  private  theatricals  she  and 
Gilbert  had  taken  part  in  one  Christmas. 

"  I  should  look  less  of  a  fright  if  I  weren't  so  pale," 
she  reflected  ;  so  she  smeared  a  little  rouge  on  each 
cheek  in  a  great  hurry,  and  ran  down  to  the  taxi  she 
had  sent  for.  She  just  caught  her  train  at  Maryle- 
bone. 

When  she  was  well  on  her  way  she  began  to  wonder 
what  she  was  going  to  say  to  Sir  Bradley  when  she 
reached  him.  She  had  never  answered  his  letter,  and 
had  not  seen  him  since  she  had  informed  him  in  all 
sincerity  that  she  hoped  she  had  hurt  him  very  much. 
She  supposed  that  was  childish,  that  she  had  made 
an  unwarrantable  fuss.  Gilbert  had  seemed  to  think 


ANNE  161 

so.  Now  she  was  going  to  ask  a  favour  of  him  with- 
out any  preliminary  breaking  of  the  barrier  of  ice  she 
had  erected.  Dr.  Langland  seemed  to  consider  it 
would  be  a  great  favour  if  he  cut  short  his  week-end 
in  the  country  to  come  back  to  town  for  an  operation 
which  other  surgeons  in  London  were  both  competent 
and  willing  to  perform.  Anne  didn't  care.  If  Gilbert 
had  been  at  home  she  would  thankfully  have  left 
everything  to  him,  and  not  questioned  any  decision 
he  had  made  ;  but  as  Gilbert  wasn't  there  she  had 
no  confidence  in  anyone  else,  and  was  going  to  take 
no  risks  with  Phil.  He  must  have  the  very  best 
advice  there  was  to  be  got,  and  she  was  going  to  get 
it  for  him.  After  all,  she  and  Sir  Bradley  had  been 
very  good  friends  until  he  had  spoiled  everything. 
But  assuredly  she  could  not  have  peremptorily 
summoned  him  by  a  telegram. 

She  had  a  carriage  to  herself  and  tried  to  rest. 
After  two  sleepless  nights  she  was  very  tired,  but  the 
refrain  the  train  sang  to  her  was  "Gilbert  shouldn't 
have  left  me.  Phil  is  going  to  die."  She  hadn't 
cried,  and  she  wouldn't  cry,  but  the  effort  she  made 
not  to  break  down  and  cry  from  tiredness,  and  fear, 
and  misery  tired  her  more.  Although  she  was  in  a 
feverish  hurry  and  resented  the  train  stopping  at 
any  stations,  she  reached  Missenden  before  she'd 
made  up  her  mind  what  she  was  going  to  say  when 
she  arrived. 

The  porter  at  the  station  told  her  it  was  three  miles 
to  Little  Hinton  and  volunteered  to  find  her  a  convey- 
ance. A  shabby  open  landau  was  fetched  while  she 
waited  on  the  platform  :  it  was  drawn  by  a  bony 
white  horse  with  hairy  hoofs  and  a  concave  spine,  and 
driven  by  a  round-faced  boy.  As  she  was  drawn  up 


162  ANNE 

the  hill  along  a  dusty  high-road  in  the  glaring  August 
sunshine,  her  mind  was  invaded  by  a  new  idea  that, 
for  the  time  being,  ousted  her  neryousness  of  meeting 
Sir  Bradley  Musgrave,  for  she  suddenly  remembered 
that  Gilbert  had  told  her  that  he  had  overdrawn  his  , 
account  :   perhaps  there  was  no  money  to  pay  for  the   ' 
operation.     This  fear   she  dismissed  peremptorily  : 
perhaps  Sir  Bradley  Musgrave  would  do  the  operation 
for  nothing,  she  said  to  herself  soothingly. 

The  drive  seemed  interminable.  The  road  was  hot, 
and  dusty  with  the  chalk-dust  that  whitened  the 
grass  and  hedges  on  either  side.  There  was  not 
enough  wind  to  make  a  ripple  on  the  fields  of  ripe 
corn  that  were  waiting  to  be  harvested.  The  briony 
and  traveller's-joy  that  tangled  the  hedges  were 
covered  with  a  thick  coating  of  white  dust.  Even 
the  larks  sounded  plaintive  and  thirsty  to  Anne's 
imagination.  The  glare  made  her  head  ache,  so  she 
fixed  her  eyes  on  the  back  of  the  driver's  coat ;  it 
was  green,  but  at  each  side  of  the  seams  there  was  a 
streak  of  dark  blue — she  found  her  attention  concen- 
trating on  the  colour  problem  it  presented,  when  he 
stopped  in  the  welcome  shade  of  some  trees  at  a 
white  gate.  He  turned  round  and  touched  his  right 
eyebrow  with  his  forefinger  : 

"  Here  is  '  The  Retreat,'  miss.  Will  you  have  me 
wait  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  please." 

The  garden  was  shady  and  green,  and  cool  after 
the  glare  of  the  long  white  road.  The  long,  low  red- 
brick house  was  covered  with  creepers.  White  and 
green  sun-blinds  at  all  the  windows  gave  it  the 
appearance  of  lying  with  closed  eyes  half  asleep. 
The  door  was  opened  by  a  manservant  who  ushered 


ANNE  163 

her  through  a  large  hall  into  a  cool  room  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  left  her  there  with  the  information 
that  Sir  Bradley  was  in  the  garden  and  should  be 
told  of  her  arrival.  The  room  was  on  the  shady  side 
of  the  house,  so  the  sun-blinds  were  up,  and  through 
the  open  windows  Anne  could  see  a  pretty  garden 
planted  with  pleached  fruit  trees,  rose  bushes  in 
curved  beds  on  the  lawn,  weeping- willow  trees,  and 
tall  masses  of  herbaceous  flowers.  The  room  itself 
was  luxuriously  furnished  with  large  soft  sofas  and 
arm-chairs,  mirrors,  etchings  on  the  walls,  heavy  silk 
curtains  at  the  windows  and  over  the  doors,  and 
vases  of  roses  on  the  mantelpiece  and  on  the  little 
tables — a  commonplace,  expensive  room.  For  no 
reason  Anne's  courage  began  to  desert  her.  She 
began  to  wish  she  hadn't  come  as  she  sat  in  the 
comfortable  arm-chair  she  had  sunk  into.  There 
was  dead  silence  in  the  house  until  the  door  opened 
and  Sir  Bradley  Musgrave  came  into  the  room. 

He  greeted  Anne  with  genial  cordiality  ;  he  had 
got  over  his  surprise  in  the  garden.  There  was  a 
twinkle  of  suppressed  amusement  in  his  eyes,  but  he 
saw  at  a  glance  that  she  was  embarrassed  and  tried 
to  put  her  at  her  ease.  He  also  saw  at  the  same 
glance  that  she  had  painted  her  cheeks,  and  that  she 
had  done  it  very  badly. 

"  I'm  delighted  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Trevor.  Are  you 
staying  in  the  neighbourhood  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Anne,  "  I  have  just  come  down  by 
train.-*  I  tried  to  telephone  to  you,  bwt  your  line  was 
out  of  order." 

"  Yes,  it's  too  bad.  I  must  make  a  fuss ;  it 
deprived  me  of  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  the 
station.  How  did  you  get  here  ?  " 


164  ANNE 

"  I  got  a  trap.    It  is  waiting  for  me." 

"  We'll  send  it  away."    He  rang  the  bell. 

"  Oh  no,  please  not !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  must 
take  the  next  train  back." 

"  I've  the  car  here,"  he  said.  Then,  to  the  servant 
who  appeared  :  "  Richards,  send  Mrs.  Trevor's  trap 
away,  and  hurry  on  lunch  a  bit — and  bring  some- 
thing to  drink."  He  drew  up  a  chair  nearer  to  Anne 
and  said  : 

"  Don't  talk  about  trains  back,  you've  only  just 
come.  This  is  really  very  nice  of  you." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  smiled  at  her. 
Anne  pulled  herself  together,  collected  her  wits,  and 
smiled  a  little  shyly  and  uncertainly.  He  said  to 
himself  that  she  really  was  very  charming. 

"  I've  come  to  you  because  I'm  in  trouble,"  she 
said. 

"  I'm  sorry  you're  in  trouble,  but  I'm  glad  you've 
come  to  me.  I  hope  it  is  nothing  serious  ?  " 

"  Phil,  my  little  boy,  has  got  appendicitis." 

"  Have  you  come  to  me  professionally  ?  "  he  asked, 
surprised  and  perplexed. 

"  Yes — at  least  my  husband  is  away — and  I 
thought  you  could  help  me,"  she  pleaded.  "  Oughtn't 
I  to  have  come  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  ought  to  have  come  !  What  a 
question  !  We're  good  friends,  aren't  we  ?  "  He 
held  out  his  hand,  and  when  Anne  gave  him  hers  he 
held  it  and  patted  it.  "  What  would  you  like  me  to 
do  ?  Come  back  with  you  and  see  the  young  shaver  ? 
How  old  is  he  ?  " 

"  Six." 

"  Ridiculous  !    Fancy  you  having  a  son  of  six." 

*'  The  doctor  says  he  ought  to  have  the  operation." 


ANNE  165 

"  Oh  you've  got  a  doctor  for  him,  then  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Langland  :  and  I'm  so  afraid  for  him." 

"  Nothing  to  be  afraid  of  !  What's  appendicitis  ? 
Don't  you  worry.  I'll  run  you  up  in  the  car  after 
lunch  and  have  a  look  at  him.  Ah,  Richards  !  "  as 
the  man  brought  in  a  silver  tray  laden  with  decanters 
and  syphons  and  glasses.  "  I  shall  want  the  car  at 
half-past  two — and  get  my  things  ready,  will  you  ? 
And  tell  Miss  Musgrave  that  Mrs.  Trevor  is  here. — 
That's  my  sister.  Now  what  will  you  have  ?  Let  me 
mix  you  a  very  mild  cock- tail." 

"  No,  only  soda-water,  please.  I'm  very  thirsty. 
It's  awfully  kind  of  you." 

"  Kind  to  give  a  guest  a  glass  of  water  ?  Is  that 
all  you'll  have  ?  " 

"  I  mean  kind  about  Phil." 

"  It  is  kind  of  you  to  come  all  this  way  to  find  me, 
uncommonly  kind." 

44  And  if  he  must  have  the  operation  ..." 

"  If  he  must  it  will  be  over  before  you've  time  to 
worry  about  it.  You'd  like  me  to  do  it  ?" 

44  Please  ..."  Anne's  eyes  were  grateful  and 
beseeching.  She  would  have  liked  to  say  more  but 
the  door  opened,  an  old  lady  came  in,  and  Sir  Bradley 
introduced  them. 

44  My  sister — Mrs.  Trevor.  She's  deaf,"  he  ex- 
plained. Miss  Musgrave  was  the  ugliest  woman 
Anne  had  ever  seen.  She  was  very  stout  and  short, 
had  a  square  dark  face,  a  large  mouth,  a  large  red 
nose,  heavy  black  eyebrows  and  small  very  bright 
dark  eyes.  Her  white  hair  was  covered  by  an 
elaborate  white  lace  cap  trimmed  with  mauve 
ribbons,  and  she  wore  a  heavy  black  satin  dress 
trimmed  with  jet.  She  carried  a  little  grey  terrier 


166  ANNE 

under  one  arm  and  a  large  ear-trumpet  trimmed  with 
frills  of  black  lace  which  she  put  to  her  ear  and 
pointed  at  Anne.  Anne  could  think  of  nothing  to 
say  into  it  and  looked  appealingly  at  her  host,  who 
shouted  down  : 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Trevor,  a  friend  of  mine.  She's 
come  to  lunch,  and  I'm  going  to  drive  her  home  this 
afternoon." 

Then  the  little  dog  barked.  Miss  Musgrave  looked 
at  Anne  quickly  and  turned  away ;  her  eyes  seemed 
full  of  malice  and  ill-will.  Anne  thought  she  was  a 
terrifying  old  lady,  and  wasn't  at  all  sure  whether 
she  was  speaking  to  her  or  to  the  little  barking  dog 
when  she  muttered  : 

"  Bad  little  girl !  bad  little  girl ! "  which  was  the 
only  remark  she  made. 

Anne's  inclination  was  to  talk  about  Phil's  illness  : 
but  her  host  seemed  to  have  dismissed  the  subject 
from  his  mind,  and  the  matter-of-fact,  almost  care- 
less, kindness  with  which  he  had  accepted  the  case 
reassured  Anne  more  than  any  protestations  he 
could  have  made.  He  could  not  think  Phil's  illness 
so  terribly  serious,  she  reasoned,  if  he  could  talk  so 
cheerfully  and  easily  about  such  unimportant  subjects 
as  his  roses,  and  the  rival  merits  of  Sauterne  and 
sparkling  Moselle,  when  they  sat  down  to  lunch.  He 
did  not  think  seriously  of  Phil's  illness.  He  did  not 
even  take  Anne's  anxiety  very  seriously.  Thanks 
to  the  artificial  colour  on  her  cheeks  she  looked  quite 
well,  meretriciously  frivolous,  and  not  in  the  least 
like  a  wan  and  worried  mother.  Also,  she  was  so 
relieved  at  having  accomplished  the  object  of  her 
errand  so  easily,  and  felt  such  confidence  in  his 
superior  attainments  as  a  surgeon  that  her  spirits 


ANNE  167 

rose,  and  out  of  gratitude  to  him,  and  in  sheer  re- 
action after  the  exaggerated  fears  of  the  journey 
down,  she  responded  to  his  evident  desire  to  have  a 
cheerful  meal.  She  could  do  no  less  than  be  charm- 
ing, restore  the  situation  that  had  existed  before  she 
had  quarrelled  with  him,  and  renew  the  gay,  spritely, 
friendly  relationship  that  had  a  very  subtle,  un- 
defined ingredient  in  it  that  made  it  amusing  to  them 
both. 

He  showed  her  his  roses,  cut  some  half -blown  buds 
for  her,  and  made  her  pretty  speeches.  She  accepted 
his  neatly  turned  compliments  as  graciously  as  she 
took  the  flowers. 

"  It  is  too  bad  that  your  visit  is  so  short,"  he  said 
as  two  o'clock  struck.  "  If  we're  to  start  in  half  an 
hour  I  must  go  and  change."  He  was  in  flannels. 
"  When  will  you  come  again  ?  " 

"  When  Phil  is  better,"  she  said. 

"  We'll  soon  have  him  better,"  he  assured  her. 
"  I'll  leave  you  with  my  sister  while  I  get  ready. 
Have  you  a  cloak  for  motoring  ?  " 

"  No,  but  it  doesn't  matter." 

"  We'll  find  you  something.  We  mustn't  spoil 
that  very  pretty  frock." 

Miss  Musgrave  was  sitting  in  the  hall,  cutting 
pictures  out  of  magazines  and  newspapers  and 
pasting  them  into  a  scrap-book. 

"  I  make  these  for  the  heathen  children,"  she  said, 
turning  her  beady  bright  eyes  on  Anne.  "  Are  you 
interested  in  Missions  ?  " 

She  put  up  her  ear- trumpet,  and  Anne  said  "  No  " 
into  it :  the  statement  sounded  bald. 

"  I  support  the  Wesley  an  West  African  Mission. 
I  make  them  twenty-four  of  these  books  every  year, 


168  ANNE 

two  a  month.  They  cost  me  nothing.  I  make  the 
leaves  out  of  brown  paper,  and  get  the  pictures  out 
of  the  papers  that  Bradley  brings  down,  and  the 
circulars  that  come  by  post.  It  is  a  very  good  idea." 
She  again  put  up  her  ear-trumpet  towards  Anne, 
and  this  time  Anne  said  "  Yes  "  into  it. 

She  felt  she  would  say  something  idiotic  if  she  had 
to  speak  into  it  again,  and  she  was  thankful  when 
her  host  came  downstairs.  The  motor  was  brought 
round,  and  Richards  came  into  the  hall  in  his 
chauffeur's  livery,  and  fetched  a  small  brown  leather 
bag  from  upstairs.  Sir  Bradley  unfolded  a  large 
thin  linen  rug  that  he  had  over  his  arm. 

"  We'll  wrap  you  up  in  this  as  a  shawl,"  he  said 
to  Anne,  "  and  you'd  better  put  this  on  your  head." 
It  was  a  large  white  chiffon  scarf.  Anne  wondered 
where  he  had  got  it  from,  it  did  not  look  as  if  it 
could  possibly  be  one  of  Miss  Musgrave's  possessions. 
"  You  really  must,"  he  insisted  as  she  half  protested. 
"  You've  no  idea  how  dusty  you'll  get.  Our  roads 
are  terrible  this  summer.  Your  hat  would  be  ruined, 
and  your  hair  would  be  white  with  chalk-dust. 
What  lovely  hair  you've  got !  How  long  is  it  when 
it  is  down  ?  Does  it  reach  to  your  knees  ?  Like 
heroines  in  books  ?  " 

"  No.    I  keep  it  cut." 

"  It  must  be  heavy.  I'm  glad  it  is  on  your  head 
and  not  on  mine." 

He  folded  the  rug  diagonally  and  put  it  round  her, 
sent  Richards  for  a  safety-pin  and  fastened  it  for  her, 
and  then  stooped  to  kiss  his  sister  who  had  not  moved 
from  her  chair,  but  continued  to  cut  out  pictures 
from  the  Daily  Graphic. 

"  Good-bye,  Georgina ;    you  can  expect  me  back 


ANNE  169 

when  you  see  me."  Anne  shook  the  limp  hand 
extended  to  her,  evaded  the  ear-trumpet,  and  was 
put  into  the  back  of  the  car.  Sir  Bradley  sat  down 
beside  her  and  tucked  another  rug  over  their  knees. 

"  Richards  has  to  drive  me  always,"  he  said.  "  I 
should  like  to  drive  myself,  but  I  daren't.  A  surgeon 
has  to  be  as  careful  of  his  hands  as  a  pianist." 

The  car  glided  swiftly  down  the  long  hill.  The 
speed  was  exhilarating.  She  was  glad  to  be  away 
from  the  house ;  and  the  knowledge  that  she  was  on 
her  way  back  to  Phil  with  her  errand  accomplished 
restored  to  Anne  something  of  her  usual  pleasure  in 
life.  The  only  thought  that  disturbed  her  was  the 
recollection  that  she  had  not  broached  the  subject 
of  the  fee  for  the  operation,  if  an  operation  was  in- 
evitable. It  had  been  difficult  before,  so  she  had 
postponed  it  to  find  it  was  not  easy  now.  After  they 
had  gone  some  miles  she  told  herself  it  had  got  to  be 
done,  for  Dr.  Langland  had  informed  her  that  it  was 
customary  to  pay  specialists  and  surgeons  their  fees 
immediately.  She  looked  thoughtful,  and  Sir 
Bradley,  who  was  watching  her,  noticed  her  sudden 
absent-mindedness. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  enquired. 

"  The  operation  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  worry.    We  don't  know  that  it  is  necessary 

yet." 

"  But  if  it  is,  I — I  shan't  be  able  to  give  you  a 
cheque  for  it  till  Gilbert  comes  home,  because  I 
think  I've  overdrawn  my  account."  Anne  used  that 
phrase  because  she  thought  it  sounded  more  business- 
like than  to  say  she  hadn't  any  money. 

"  Don't  you  think  about  that.  I  don't  send  bills 
in  to  my  friends." 


170  ANNE 

He  smiled  at  her,  and  in  response  to  the  somewhat 
embarrassed  expression  of  thanks  she  faltered,  he 
put  his  arm  round  her  waist  and  drew  nearer  to 
her. 

"  That  will  be  all  right,"  he  assured  her,  "  you 
can  thank  me  when  you  come  down  here  next 
time." 

She  tried  to  move  away  from  him,  glancing 
hurriedly  and  agonisingly  at  the  chauffeur.  He 
mistook  the  origin  of  her  reluctance. 

"  Richards  is  a  well-trained  servant,"  he  said 
soothingly.  "  He  won't  look  round." 

He  kept  his  arm  round  her,  and  Anne  felt  unable 
to  fly  into  a  rage  and  order  him  to  release  her  ;  she 
was  under  too  great  an  obligation  to  him.  She 
flushed  deeply,  her  lips  quivered,  and  she  looked  at 
him  with  the  pleading  eyes  that  Gilbert  rarely 
resisted. 

"  Please  don't,"  she  implored. 

He  thought  her  a  very  finished  and  accomplished 
coquette.  To  do  him  justice,  he  was  convinced  that 
she  meant  him  to  make  love  to  her.  He  imagined 
that  she  had  seized  upon  the  child's  illness  as  a 
plausible  excuse  for  renewing  their  acquaintanceship 
and  for  betraying  contrition  for  her  ridiculous 
behaviour  to  him  in  June.  Her  own  doctor  must 
have  told  her  there  were  plenty  of  good  surgeons  in 
London,  he  had  argued,  it  wasn't  wholly  on  the 
child's  account  she  had  sought  him.  In  his  experience 
of  women,  worried  mothers  of  children  at  death's 
door  didn't  paint  their  faces,  put  on  pretty  frocks 
and  come  out  for  a  jaunt  into  the  country.  He  with- 
drew his  arm  though,  to  her  great  relief ;  but  to  her 
dismay  he  began  to  talk  about  her  next  visit  to 


ANNE  171 

"  The  Retreat  "  as  if  she  had  promised  to  spend  a 
week-end  there. 

"  I  said  I'd  come  for  lunch,"  she  said. 

"  I  shan't  be  satisfied  with  such  a  flying  visit  next 
time,"  he  assured  her  hospitably.  "  I've  a  lot  to 
show  you.  You  needn't  be  afraid,  you  know.  My 
sister  is  there  to  play  propriety.  No  harm  in  you 
coming  into  the  country  alone  to  spend  a  night  or 
two  with  an  old  lady  who's  taken  a  fancy  to  you, 
is  there  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  she  said  hastily. 

"  Splendid  old  woman,  my  sister,"  he  said  ;  "  she's 
a  great  comfort.  As  long  as  she's  got  a  small  dog 
and  a  few  picture  papers  she's  perfectly  contented. 
Thinks  I'm  a  model  brother  because  I  supply  her 
with  both." 

To  Anne,  with  her  nerves  on  edge,  the  drive 
seemed  intolerably  long ;  in  order  to  steer  clear  of 
her  host's  sentimentality  she  talked  gaily  and  flip- 
pantly, and  laughed,  a  little  hysterically,  until  they 
were  actually  at  the  door.  Then,  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold,  Sir  Bradley  Musgrave  was  metamorpho- 
sised  from  the  apparently  idle,  cynical,  unprincipled 
fldneur  into  a  dignified,  calm,  level-headed  man  of 
science.  Dr.  Langland  had  just  arrived.  Anne 
introduced  them,  and  the  two  men  went  up  to  the 
nursery  together.  Phil  was  awake  and  scowled  at 
the  surgeon  suspiciously. 

"  I  don't  want  no  more  beastly  doctors  touching 
me,"  he  declared. 

"  You  must  be  good,  darling  !  "  Anne  said.  "  If 
you  won't  cry,  I'll  buy  you  anything  you  like." 

"  Will  you  buy  me  a  dog  ?  " 

A  dog  was  the  one  thing  Gilbert  had  refused  him. 


172  ANNE 

"  Yes,  ducky,  as  soon  as  you're  better." 

"  A  real  live  dog  ?  One  that  barks,  wif  a  tail  that 
wags  and  a  collar  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darling  ;   I  promise." 

**  Then  I  won't  cry.  And  when  the  dog  dies  I'll 
have  him  stuffed  and  keep  him  always."  He  lay  still, 
with  his  forehead  puckered  into  a  frown,  and  said 
defiantly  : 

"  Now  you  can  touch  me." 

Sir  Bradley 's  examination  was  over  in  a  few 
seconds.  He  decided  that  an  operation  was  inevit- 
able, and  that  it  would  be  better  to  do  it  at  once,  as 
a  restless,  feverish  night  wouldn't  do  the  child  any 
good.  Dr.  Langland  agreed,  and  the  two  doctors 
discussed  anaesthetics  while  the  nurse  prepared  the 
room.  Anne  sat  by  Phil's  bed  trying  to  amuse  him. 
Then  she  had  to  go  downstairs  to  wait  alone. 

She  had  nerved  herself  to  wait  for  hours,  and  it 
was  a  shock  when  Dr.  Langland  came  down  to  her 
after  a  very  short  time. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  he  said  cheerily.  "  By  Jove  ! 
The  man  is  a  marvel !  It  is  an  education  to  sec  a 
master-hand  like  his  operate.  And  Phil  has  stood  it 
splendidly.  The  little  fellow  has  your  pluck." 

Anne  didn't  feel  plucky,  she  felt  seasick.  Sir 
Bradley,  who  had  followed  Dr.  Langland  downstairs, 
thought  she  was  going  to  faint.  She  was  very  white, 
for  she  had  washed  her  face,  but  she  kept  a  tight  hold 
of  her  nerves  and  all  her  will-power,  and  poured  out 
tea  for  them  with  as  much  self-command  as  if  she 
were  quite  used  to  children  having  operations  every 
afternoon. 

Sir  Bradley  came  the  next  morning  to  see  the 
child. 


ANNE  173 

"  He's  a  splendid  patient,"  he  assured  Anne  when 
they  stood  in  the  drawing-room  again.  "  He'll  be 
as  right  as  ninepence  now.  He's  full  of  vitality  too, 
jolly  little  chap.  You'll  have  him  running  about  in 
a  fortnight.  Arrange  to  get  him  away  to  the  seaside, 
to  the  East  Coast." 

"  I  wish  I  could  thank  you,"  she  stammered, 
her  beautiful  eyes  suddenly  full  of  tears.  "  I  never 
can  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  yes  you  can,  bless  you.  You're  coming  down 
to  '  The  Retreat '  when  that  youngster  is  on  his  legs 
again  !  In  the  meantime,  you  can  give  me  some- 
thing on  account  if  you  like."  He  laid  his  hands 
gently  on  her  shoulders.  Anne  turned  very  red, 
held  up  an  ashamed,  reluctant  face  with  downcast 
eyes,  and  let  him  kiss  her. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

ONE  evening,  a  fortnight  after  the  operation,  there 
came  a  trunk  call  on  the  telephone,  and  Anne  heard 
Gilbert,  frantic  with  anxiety,  speaking  from  Glasgow. 

"  How  is  Phil  ?  " 

"  Better— nearly  well." 

"  Is  that  you,  Anne  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I'm  on  my  way  home.  I  only  reached  Oban  this 
afternoon  and  got  your  letters  and  telegrams — just 
had  time  to  catch  the  train.  I'm  coming  up  to-night. 
You  poor  child,  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  all  right." 

"  But,  Anne  darling,  all  those  letters  and  telegrams 
are  a  fortnight  old.  I've  had  the  most  awful  fright !  " 

"  I  sent  a  telegram  to  say  the  operation  was  safely 
over  and  quite  successful.  Didn't  you  get  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  .  .  ."  Before  he  could  suggest  that  he 
considered  it  an  inadequate  allowance  of  news  he 
was  cut  off. 

He  arrived  the  next  morning  before  Anne  was  up. 
She  was  so  thankful  to  hear  his  voice  that  she  forgot 
her  intention  of  showing  him  that  she  had  been 
annoyed  with  him  for>  going  away,  and  ran  down- 
stairs in  her  dressing-gown  straight  into  his  arms. 

Gilbert  was  full  of  remorse  as  he  hurried  to  London, 
remorse  for  having  left  Anne  and  Phil  alone  while  he 

174 


ANNE  175 

enjoyed  himself,  and  for  having  gone  beyond  recall. 
If  anything  had  happened  he  would  never  have  for- 
given himself,  he  said  so  to  Anne  as  he  put  her  heavy 
hair  back  from  her  face  with  a  tender  hand  and 
kissed  her  little  pale  face. 

"  You  mean  if  Phil  had  died,"  she  said,  using  the 
words  he  had  shrunk  from ;  "  but  that  wouldn't 
have  been  your  fault.  I  did  wish  you'd  been  here. 
It  was  so  awful.  But  he's  all  right ;  come  up  and 
see  him.  The  hospital  nurse  went  yesterday.  Nurse 
takes  care  of  him  by  day,  and  I  sleep  with  him  at 
night,  but  he  never  woke  once.  And  I'm  going  to 
take  him  to  the  seaside  as  soon  as  Dr.  Langland  says 
he  may  go." 

Phil  was  so  well  and  cheerful  that  Gilbert  began 
to  feel  the  seriousness  of  the  danger  had  been  exag- 
gerated, that  he  had  been  unnecessarily  agitated  by 
Anne's  frightened  letters  and  telegrams.  Surely  no 
little  boy  who  had  been  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death  two  weeks  ago  could  be  in  such  riotous  spirits, 
and  clamouring  so  vociferously  for  his  breakfast. 

"  I've  got  a  dog,  Daddy  !  And  it's  chewed  up  one 
of  your  shoes." 

Anne  would  have  chosen  to  introduce  the  dog 
more  tactfully. 

"  I  promised  him  a  dog  if  he  was  good  and  didn't 
cry.  And  he  was  awfully  good,  Gilbert.  He  never 
cried  at  all,  not  even  when  he  came  to  after  the 
ether  or  whatever  they  gave  him." 

"  And  I've  named  him  Samuel,"  shouted  Phil, 
"  because  of  Samuel  in  the  Bible." 

"  What  is  the  connection  ?  "  Gilbert  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Anne  said.  "  Phil  says  he  looks 
like  Samuel.  He's  a  Dandie  Dimnont.  I  thought  a 


176  ANNE 

fox-terrier  would  be  nicer,  but  Phil  bargained  for  a 
dog  with  a  tail  that  wagged,  and  terriers  haven't 
much  tail." 

"  Well,  if  the  dog  is  an  accomplished  fact  I  suppose 
it  must  be  borne  with."  He  pulled  Anne's  hair. 
"  You  didn't  tell  me  what  I  was  coming  home  to. 
A  telegram  to  say  you'd  acquired  a  dog  named  Samuel 
would  have  been  reassuring.  I  should  have  had  a 
better  night." 

Later,  at  breakfast,  he  said  : 

"  The  little  chap  seems  remarkably  well.  Did 
Langland  do  the  operation  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not.  I  wouldn't  trust  him.  I  got 
Sir  Bradley  Musgrave." 

"  Oh  !  you  got  that  man,  did  you  ?  "  Gilbert 
sounded  slightly  surprised. 

*'  He's  the  best  surgeon  in  London  now.  Every- 
body says  that.  More  coffee  ?  " 

"  Please.    I  suppose  this  is  Samuel  ?  " 

A  small  grey  dog  with  crooked  brown  legs  and  tragic 
brown  eyes  dashed  into  the  room  and  tried  to  express 
his  delight  at  being  alive  and  in  such  congenial  com- 
pany by  squirming,  and  panting,  and  beating  the 
carpet  heavily  with  his  tail. 

"  Yes.  I  got  him  at  a  shop  in  a  slum.  I  dare  say 
they'd  stolen  him.  He  was  three  pounds  ;  is  that 
much  for  a  dog  ?  It  was  the  only  thing  Phil  wanted." 

Anne  was  much  more  eager  to  tell  him  all  about 
the  dog  than  to  hear  about  his  yachting  trip  Gilbert 
noted.  He  had  anticipated  a  very  different  home- 
coming. He  had  pictured  an  overwrought  Anne 
weeping  over  a  sick  child  in  a  distraught  household, 
and  himself  soothing  and  consoling  her,  and  putting 
everything  right :  another  vision  he  had  had  was  of 


ANNE  177 

a  rather  sulky  young  wife,  bored  by  his  absence, 
being  wooed  back  to  amiability  by  his  amusing 
stories  of  his  yachting  experiences.  Instead,  Phil  was 
in  apparent  robust  health,  Anne  was  neither  tearful, 
nor  cross,  nor  interested  in  his  adventures  ;  she  had 
managed  very  well  without  him,  and  had  calmly 
added  a  dog  to  the  establishment.  He  had  summoned 
various  good  qualities  to  attend  his  home-coming, 
among  them  fortitude  and  sympathy  ;  as  none  of 
them  were  immediately  called  upon  he  let  them 
retire  into  the  background,  and  began  to  think  that 
he  was  tired,  that  the  dog  would  be  a  nuisance,  and 
that  Anne  was  inconsiderate  not  to  have  written 
reassuringly. 

"  Marian  Wyndham  went  with  me  to  choose  him," 
Anne  was  saying.  "  She  understands  about  dogs.  I 
met  her  on  the  Embankment.  You  remember 
Marian  Wyndham  ?  " 

"  That  sandy-haired  woman  you  met  at  the 
studio  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I'd  not  seen  her  for  ages.  She  was  very 
kind.  She's  awfully  clever,  she  had  a  picture  in  the 
Salon  this  year,  and  one  in  the  '  International '  here. 
A  landscape,  it  was  hung  on  the  line.  Oh,  there's 
Dr.  Langland  1  " 

After  the  physician  had  seen  Phil,  pronounced 
that  he  was  as  fit  as  a  fiddle,  and  might  be  carried  off 
to  the  seaside  as  soon  as  anybody  liked,  and  the 
sooner  the  better,  he  smoked  a  cigarette  with  Gilbert 
in  his  study,  and  gave  him  the  official  account  of  the 
child's  illness.  When  he  had  gone  Gilbert  sought 
Anne,  who  was  rearranging  the  drawing-room,  a 
pastime  she  indulged  in  about  once  a  month.  She 
welcomed  him  as  a  useful  pawn  in  the  game. 


178  ANNE 

"  I  think  the  sofa  would  look  better  in  the  window," 
she  said. 

"  Well  then,  I  don't,"  he  declared,  sitting  on  the 
end  of  it.  "  And  if  it  did,  it  is  far  too  hot  a  day  to 
spend  chucking  furniture  about.  What  about  money, 
Anne  ?  I  suppose  this  illness  of  Phil's  will  mount  up 
to  a  pretty  penny." 

"  I've  paid  the  nurse  out  of  the  housekeeping 
money,"  she  explained.  "  The  shops  can  wait.  And 
Dr.  Langland  settled  up  with  the  specialist  we  had." 

"  But  the  operation  ?  How  much  will  the  fee  for 
that  run  us  into  ?  Langland  says  you  fixed  up  that, 
and  that  it  will  be  pretty  stiff.  How  I'm  going  to 
afford  it  I  don't  know." 

Anne  flushed  scarlet  as  she  moved  a  small  chair. 

"  Sir  Bradley  didn't  tell  me.  At  least  he  said  he- 
wouldn't  take  any  money  for  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  did  it  for  nothing  ?  That 
is  uncommonly  kind  of  him.  I'll  write  and  thank 
him." 

"  I  ...  I  wouldn't  do  that !  "  Anne  said  quickly. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  .  .  .  necessary." 

"  Not  necessary  ?  But  hang  it  all,  Anne,  one  can't 
take  a  thing  like  that  and  not  be  grateful.  Of  course 
I  must  write  and  thank  him." 

"  I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,"  said  Anne.  "  He  wasn't 
really  very  nice  about  it." 

"  Not  nice  about  it  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  First 
you  tell  me  he  isn't  taking  any  money  for  the  opera- 
tion, and  then  that  he  wasn't  very  nice  about  it ! 
Either  I've  got  to  send  him  a  cheque  or  I  haven't. 
And  if  I  haven't,  I  must  write  him  a  decent  letter." 

**  He    doesn't    deserve    a    decent    letter !  "    Anne 


ANNE  179 

declared  as  she  walked  to  the  window.  "  I  wasn't 
going  to  tell  you,  but  I  suppose  I'd  better.  You  see 
...  I  told  him  about  Phil  .  .  .  and  I  asked  him  to 
do  the  operation." 

"  So  I  imagined,"  said  Gilbert  impatiently.  "  I 
wasn't  supposing  he  came  out  here  and  operated  on 
the  kid  uninvited." 

"  No.  He  was  away  in  Buckinghamshire.  I  went 
out  there  to  find  him.  ..." 

"  A  damned  silly  thing  for  you  to  do  !    Go  on  !  " 

"  I  didn't  care.    It  was  to  save  Phil's  life." 

"  Stuff !  He's  not  the  only  surgeon  in  London 
who  can  operate  for  appendicitis  without  killing  his 
patient." 

"  Phil  was  very  ill :  he'd  got  to  have  the  best  sur- 
geon there  was,  and  he's  a  splendid  surgeon ;  but 
he's  not  a  nice  man.  I  had  lunch  with  him  and  his 
sister  at  his  house,  and  he  motored  me  back,  and 
then  ...  he  made  things  awfully  difficult  for  me.' 

"  In  what  way  ?  Come,  Anne,  you're  not  a  child," 
he  added  sharply.  "  Don't  be  a  little  fool !  " 

"  I  shan't  answer  at  all  if  you  speak  to  me  like  that." 

"It  is  no  use  you  getting  in  one  of  your  silly 
tempers,"  he  said  with  anger  in  his  voice.  "  In  what 
way  did  the  man  '  make  things  difficult  for  you  '  ?  " 

"  He  insulted  me,"  said  Anne.  "  He  made  love  to 
me,  pretended  I'd  promised  to — to  go  and  spend  a 
week-end  with  him.  And  of  course  I  couldn't  snub 
him  at  the  time,  when  he'd  just  said  he'd  do  the 
operation  for  Phil  and  not  charge  for  it." 

"  Good  Lord,  Anne  !  Do  you  know  what  you're 
saying  ?  Do  you  mean  to  stand  there  and  tell  me 
you  made  a — sort  of  bargain  with  him  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  quite  like  that,"  she  said.    "  I  had  to 


180  ANNE 

let  him  think  what  he  liked  ;  but  of  course  I  never 
meant  to  go,  I  never  meant  to  see  him  again  !  Never  ! 
And  I  haven't  since  the  operation.  He  came  once, 
and  I  said  I  was  out." 

Gilbert  was  white  with  rage. 

'*  You  .  .  .  you  infernal  little  cad  ! "  he  said 
slowly. 

Anne  stared  at  him.  She  had  expected  sympathy. 
She  saw  a  strange,  contemptuous  hostility  in  his  face, 
and  if  her  own  familiar  drawing-room  had  split  into 
wreckage  around  her  and  thrown  her  out  into  the 
street  she  would  have  been  less  astounded  and  dis- 
mayed. She  looked  at  him  helplessly  while  she  tried 
to  gather  up  her  faculties  to  bear  what  was  happening 
to  her. 

"  You  seek  out  the  man,  knowing  what  his  char- 
acter is,"  he  said  with  scornful  cruelty  ;  "  you  throw 
yourself  at  his  head,  make  a  fool  of  him — make  use 
of  him,  smile  at  him  till  you've  got  what  you  want 
out  of  him.  You  pretend,  you  trick  him,  never 
meaning  to  see  him  again.  Upon  my  soul !  And  then 
you  expect  anyone  to  have  any  respect  for  you  !  " 

He  stalked  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house. 
Anne  heard  him  bang  the  front  door. 

She  sat  down  because  she  was  trembling  too  much 
to  stand.  She  was  quivering  with  what  she  imagined 
to  be  anger,  passionate  anger  that  Gilbert  should 
have  dared  to  speak  to  her  with  such  scorn.  She  felt 
cold  and  sick  with  the  intensity  of  her  passion.  And 
then  she  was  frightened,  because  no  fit  of  rage  had 
ever  frightened  her  before.  She  didn't  understand 
what  had  happened  to  her.  Gilbert  had  been  cruel 
and  unjust,  and  nothing  in  the  world  could  ever  be 
the  same  again.  She  felt  as  impotent  and  as  desperate 


ANNE  181 

as  if  he  had  committed  some  unforgivable  crime  before 
her  eyes.  If  he  had  killed  Phil,  she  thought  she 
should  have  known  what  to  do,  she  would  have  tried 
to  kill  him.  He  had  made  her  hate  him.  That  was 
what  was  the  matter  with  her — it  wasn't  rage  that 
was  in  her  soul.  Rage  was  something  simple  and 
transient  and  cleansing,  like  a  storm  of  wind  :  this 
was  hatred  that  had  taken  possession  of  her.  She 
hated  cruelty  and  injustice  and  treachery,  and  Gilbert 
had  been  cruel  and  unjust,  and  had  betrayed  her,  so 
she  hated  Gilbert.  She  never  wanted  to  see  him 
again,  unless  she  could  retaliate  by  making  him 
suffer.  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  tried 
in  a  confused,  reckless  hurry  to  think  of  means  of 
revenge.  She  hadn't  a  pistol,  so  she  couldn't  shoot 
him  ;  she  thought  of  asking  John  to  get  her  a  pistol, 
only  John  might  then  insist  upon  shooting  him  for 
her,  and  she  wanted  to  do  it  herself.  Only  if  she  killed 
Gilbert  she  would  be  found  out  and  hanged,  and  Phil 
would  be  left  an  orphan.  She  encouraged  these  wild 
thoughts,  for  so  long  as  she  was  thinking  out  fantastic 
schemes  of  vengeance  her  mind  couldn't  dwell  on  the 
pain  of  her  own  wounded  spirit :  perhaps  it  would 
punish  Gilbert  if  she  killed  herself,  only  she  wouldn't 
be  there  to  enjoy  his  punishment.  Besides,  he  might 
be  sorry  for  her,  and  the  idea  of  his  pitying  her  made 
her  revolt.  She  would  make  him  sorry  for  himself, 
not  for  her.  She  glanced  round  the  room  :  if  she 
could  destroy  something,  break  something,  perhaps 
the  violence  would  break  the  terrible  spell  that  was 
laid  upon  her,  that  was  keeping  her  sitting  there 
decorously  in  the  drawing-room  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  although  love  was  in  ruins  and  her  life 
devastated.  But  she  was  conscious  of  a  strange 


182  ANNE 

lassitude  and  a  headache,  and  lacked  energy  to 
express  her  emotions  violently,  even  if  there  was 
anything  in  the  room  she  wanted  to  smash,  and  there 
wasn't.  The  only  terror  that  prevented  her  throwing 
herself  down  on  the  floor  in  a  storm  of  exhausted  sobs 
and  tears  was  the  fear  that  Gilbert  might  return.  She 
couldn't  see  him.  She  wanted  never  to  see  him  again. 
She  must  think  how  that  was  to  be  managed.  She 
couldn't  think  in  the  house.  She  must  go  out. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

MARIAN  WYNDHAM,  crossing  Chelsea  Bridge  at  the 
end  of  the  sultry  afternoon  she  had  spent  painting 
on  a  wharf  on  the  south  side  of  the  river,  came  upon 
Anne,  standing  by  the  parapet  facing  the  power- 
station,  staring  down  into  the  water.  The  tired 
painter  rested  her  load  of  apparatus — the  telescopic 
easel  and  a  satchel  containing  her  sketch-book, 
brush-box  and  paints — on  the  rail,  and  gazed  at  the 
grey,  broad  river.  A  fussy  little  blunt-nosed  tug  had 
just  lowered  her  funnel  and  rushed  under  the  bridge, 
the  water  churned  into  miniature  waves  in  her  wake. 

"  Jolly,  isn't  it  ?  "  Marian  said  pleasantly,  indicat- 
ing the  sudden  broad  curve  of  the  river  with  her 
jerky,  swift  gesture.  She  was  a  thin,  plain  woman, 
with  a  sallow,  nervous,  clever  face  and  untidy, 
straight,  fair  hair.  Winter  and  summer,  she  always 
seemed  to  wear  the  same  clothes,  the  loose,  ill-fitting 
tweed  coat  and  skirt  of  no  particular  colour,  a  putty- 
coloured  shirt  and  a  man's  tie,  and  a  small  battered 
hat  very  much  on  the  back  of  her  head.  She  had  a 
fine  brow,  long  sensitive  hands,  and  kind,  clear, 
fearless,  thoughtful  eyes  that  seemed  to  see  rather 
more  than  other  people's  eyes.  She  looked  wistfully 
at  the  swirling  water. 

"  I've  been  trying  to  paint  it  all  day — the  greys, 
the  greys  with  green  in  them,  and  the  greys  with 

'83 


184  ANNE 

yellow  in  them,  and  the  little  flashes  of  sunshine  on 
the  water  that  one  could  only  get  by  dipping  one's 
brush  in  liquid  diamonds.  And  then  one  gets  every- 
thing of  the  water  on  canvas  except  its  liquidity." 

"It  is  very  dirty,"  said  Anne  with  a  little  shiver 
of  disgust. 

Marian  looked  at  her  quickly,  and  asked  : 

"  Your  boy  ?    He's  not  worse  I  hope  ?  " 

Anne  shook  her  head. 

"  He's  very  well,"  she  said  listlessly.  "  I'm  going 
to  take  him  away." 

Marian  hoisted  her  paraphernalia  on  to  her  other 
shoulder  and  turned  away  from  her  beloved  river. 

"  Come  back  to  tea  with  me,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
dying  for  tea,  I've  had  no  lunch." 

She  put  her  hand  through  the  younger  woman's 
arm  and  took  her  acquiescence  for  granted.  She 
didn't  know  what  was  the  matter  with  Anne ;  when 
she  first  saw  her  white,  set  face  she  thought  that  the 
child  was  either  much  worse  or  dead.  Something  was 
evidently  wrong.  She  was  too  tactful  to  ask  any 
questions,  and  she  didn't  know  her  well  enough  to 
form  any  opinions  ;  she  only  knew  she  couldn't  leave 
her  alone  on  the  bridge.  So  she  kept  her  free  hand  on 
her  arm,  and  walked  along  the  Embankment  and 
turned  up  Church  Street,  talking  about  various  pic- 
tures in  the  summer  exhibitions  as  they  picked  their 
way  among  the  children  who  were  playing  and  pic- 
nicking on  the  narrow,  hot  pavement.  Marian  was  not 
sentimental,  but  she  had  once  rescued  a  scared  baby 
from  an  older  child  who  was  ill-treating  it,  and  there 
was  a  look  in  Anne's  eyes  that  reminded  her  of  the 
expression  of  dazed,  uncomprehending  endurance 
there  had  been  on  the  baby's  face  when  she  had 


ANNE  185 

carried  it  home  to  its  mother.  She  took  Anne  across 
the  King's  Road,  opened  a  door  up  a  narrow  passage 
with  a  latchkey,  and  led  the  way  up  a  flight  of  un- 
carpeted  stairs  into  an  untidy  room  that  was  partly 
studio,  partly  kitchen.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
unframed  canvases  and  charcoal  sketches  ;  the  floor 
and  furniture  were  littered  with  books  and  clothes. 
There  was  a  rusty  gas  stove  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  and  a  table  piled  with  the  remains  of  the  last 
meal. 

"  Excuse  the  muddle,  I'm  packing,"  Marian  ex- 
plained. She  pulled  up  a  large  wicker  arm-chair 
and  put  Anne  into  it  while  she  made  preparations 
for  tea.  She  lit  a  gas-ring  and  boiled  a  copper  kettle, 
and  produced  biscuits,  some  cheese,  and  a  pot  of 
marmalade  from  the  cupboard. 

"  I  know  I  had  some  caviare  somewhere,"  she  said 
vaguely.  "  It's  not  on  the  mantelpiece,  is  it  ?  " 

Anne  roused  herself  to  look  for  the  caviare,  which 
was  finally  discovered  on  the  window-sill  in  com- 
pany with  a  cucumber,  a  jug  of  milk,  and  a  cupful 
of  butter. 

"  That's  my  larder."  Marian  frowned  apologeti- 
cally. "  I'm  sorry  there's  no  bread."  She  took 
exquisite  porcelain  cups  and  saucers  from  a  Sheraton 
corner  cupboard  and  made  tea.  Anne  lay  back  in 
the  chair  and  drank  the  tea  gratefully.  She  wasn't 
hungry,  she  said,  when  her  hostess  pressed  food  upon 
her.  Marian  sat  on  the  floor,  and  ate  cheese  and 
marmalade  on  Bath  Oliver  biscuits,  and  smoked 
Russian  cigarettes  while  she  wondered  what  she  was 
going  to  do  with  her  guest  next. 

Marian  at  the  age  of  fourteen  had  scandalised  her 
mother  and  perplexed  her  father  by  remarking  that, 


186  ANNE 

in  her  opinion,  there  ought  to  be  an  Eleventh  Com- 
mandment, "  Thou  shalt  not  funk."  She  was  pre- 
pared to  argue  it  out.  It  was  part  of  her  creed. 
She  never  refused  to  take  on  any  responsibility 
that  presented  itself  in  need  of  adoption.  So  as  Anne 
lay  back  in  the  wicker  chair,  and  seemed  disinclined 
to  go  home,  Marian  pondered  over  the  problem  she 
presented.  She  had  had  some  sort  of  shock  or 
blow.  Marian  could  not  question  her,  nor  sympa- 
thise, and  remain  tactful ;  she  could  only  guess. 
Anne  was  married  ;  her  child  was  not  the  origin  of 
her  trouble,  therefore  it  was  probably  due  to  her 
husband.  In  Marian's  second-hand  experiences  of 
matrimonial  storms  the  trouble  always  was  due  to 
the  husband,  unless  all  unhappy  wives  were  liars. 
She  imagined  a  quarrel,  thanked  her  lucky  star  that 
she  was  a  spinster,  and  was  not  deterred  from  trying 
to  help  Anne  by  any  paltry  diffidence  about  the 
proverbial  unwisdom  of  interference  in  the  conjugal 
affairs  of  other  people. 

"  You  look  fagged  out,"  Marian  observed  after 
her  third  cigarette.  "  Why  don't  you  and  the  kiddy 
come  down  to  my  bungalow  with  me  to-morrow 
morning  ?  I'm  going  by  the  nine  twenty-five  train. 
It's  in  Suffolk,  right  on  the  sea — very  primitive,  but 
quite  jolly.  It  would  do  you  both  no  end  of  good." 

A  shade  of  relief  stole  over  Anne's  face,  and  her 
eyes  looked  eager. 

"  Do  come  !  "  urged  Marian.  "  I'm  all  alone  there. 
I'm  afraid  there's  not  a  room  for  the  nurse,  but  he'll 
roll  on  the  beach  all  day  and  won't  want  washing 
and  dressing."  She  lit  a  fourth  cigarette.  "  It  is 
quite  decent  there,  really ;  a  nice  woman  comes  in 
and  does  for  me.  And  I  get  everything  from  a  farm 


ANNE  187 

— milk,  bread,  vegetables,  butter  and  eggs,  chickens, 
bacon,  cream  !  Don't  be  afraid  ;  the  invalid  won't  be 
fed  on  caviare  and  cheese." 

"  I'm  not  afraid.  .  .  ." 

"  Come  on  then  !  I  love  having  visitors,  and  never 
get  any  because  people  always  want  such  long  notice, 
and  I  never  know  beforehand  what  I'm  going  to  be 
doing  or  feeling  like.  You're  not  one  of  those  stuffy 
people  who  make  arrangements  six  months  ahead." 

Anne  sat  bolt  upright  in  her  chair. 

"  I'd  love  to  come,"  she  said.  "  May  I  bring  the 
dog  ?  " 

Gilbert  dined  at  his  Club.  When  he  got  home  it 
was  eleven  o'clock.  As  he  went  to  bed,  he  thought 
he  heard  Anne  moving  about  overhead  in  the  narsery, 
but  he  did  not  go  upstairs  to  speak  to  her.  He  was 
still  angry  and  irritated,  and  he  didn't  know  what  he 
was  going  to  say  to  her,  especially  if  she  were  in  a 
bad  temper  too,  as  she  probably  would  be. 

He  slept  late  and  heavily  after  the  sleepless  night 
before  in  the  train,  and  when  he  came  down  to 
breakfast  at  nine-thirty  he  was  confronted  by  the 
nurse,  who  informed  him  that  Anne  had  taken  Phil 
to  the  seaside  by  the  early  train,  and  given  her  a 
holiday. 

Gilbert  divined  that  Anne  was  offended,  and  de- 
cided to  give  her  a  week  in  which  to  recover  her 
temper  before  he  communicated  with  her  in  any  way. 
She  had  put  him  in  a  difficult  position.  He  didn't 
know  what  he  was  going  to  do  about  Sir  Bradley 
Musgrave.  He  needed  time  to  consider  what  would 
be  the  easiest  course  for  him  to  pursue.  The  only 
axiom  he  felt  quite  sure  of  was  that  women  had  no 
principles.  Laura  Blake  had  proved  that  to  his  dis- 


188  ANNE 

satisfaction  on  the  yachting  cruise  :  because  he  had 
a  sense  of  honour  and  would  not  gratify  her  vanity 
by  flagrant  disloyalty  to  Anne,  and  incidentally  to 
his  host  as  well,  she  had  outraged  his  sense  of  dignity 
by  treating  him  with  subtle  disdain,  and  cultivating, 
with  mortifying  fervour,  the  society  of  another 
member  of  the  party,  a  good-looking  young  attache 
from  the  Italian  Embassy.  He  had  not  enjoyed  the 
experience  of  playing  second  fiddle  to  a  "  manicured 
foreign  puppy."  He  was  irritated  whenever  he 
remembered  him.  Only  at  Oban,  when  he  had  com- 
municated the  bad  news  he  had  found  awaiting  him, 
did  Laura  Blake  suddenly  relent  and  give  him  the 
sympathy  he  was  accustomed  to  receive  from  her  : 
and  then  his  thoughts  had  been  too  full  of  Anne  for 
him  to  appreciate  it. 

He  spent  a  psychologically  uncomfortable  week. 
Anne's  behaviour  rankled.  He  was  furious  when- 
ever he  considered  it  afresh  ;  he  had  done  well  to 
be  displeased  with  her.  Yet  whenever  he  recol- 
lected his  anger,  that  rankled  too.  He  had  perhaps 
expressed  himself  harshly,  and  as  he  prided  himself 
upon  invariably  behaving  well,  Anne  became  a  fresh 
source  of  irritation  and  discomfort  as  the  cause  of 
his  having  behaved,  if  not  badly,  at  least  with  less 
than  his  customary  coolness  and  tact.  At  the  end 
of  a  week  he  was  still  undecided  what  line  of  action 
to  take  regarding  Sir  Bradley  Musgrave,  so  the 
easiest  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  do  nothing.  As 
for  Anne,  he  supposed  it  was  about  time  he  forgave 
her.  He  hated  writing  letters  :  he  would  go  down 
and  see  her,  and  when  he  met  her  he  would  kiss  her 
as  though  nothing  had  happened,  and  tell  her  not  to 
be  such  a  little  fool  again. 


ANNE  189 

. 

He  sent  a  telegram  to  announce  his  purpose  and 
the  hour  of  his  train's  arrival,  three  p.m.  He  half 
expected  her  to  be  at  the  station  with  Phil ;  but  the 
only  sign  of  life  on  the  platform  was  a  bored  porter 
and  the  stationmaster's  turkeys,  who  were  scratching 
up  a  bed  of  petunias.  The  station  was  an  irrelevant 
incident  in  an  uninteresting  landscape.  It  might 
have  been  dropped  at  random  from  an  airship,  it 
seemed  to  be  so  aimlessly  marooned  in  the  centre  of 
a  circle  of  flat  green  pasture  land.  There  was  no 
sign  of  the  sea  or  a  village.  He  was  compelled,  much 
against  his  principles  and  inclination,  to  question 
the  porter,  and  learnt  to  his  disgust  that  he  had  three 
miles  to  walk.  He  left  his  bag  at  the  station. 

A  straight,  dusty,  shadeless  road  bisected  the 
common,  but  as  he  came  near  the  sea  a  refreshing  salt 
breeze  met  him.  The  common  ended  in  a  soft  carpet 
of  sandy  turf  patterned  with  flowers  in  patches  of 
colour — restharrow,  feathery  yellow  bedstraw,  mauve 
scabious  ;  and  beyond  the  wild -flowered  short  turf 
was  a  line  of  sand-dunes  covered  with  coarse  ribbon 
grass,  silvery  sea-holly,  and  tufts  of  yellow  poppies 
with  horn-like  seed  pods.  Then  came  the  wide  wet 
beach  and  the  sea,  as  blue  as  delphiniums,  marked 
with  tide  lines  of  jade  green.  There  was  a  coast- 
guard station  on  the  dunes,  a  little  group  of  grey 
stone  cottages,  as  neat  and  clean  as  a  toy  from  a 
shop -window,  and  near  the  coastguard  station, 
among  the  dunes  and  facing  the  sea,  a  few  small 
wooden  bungalows.  Gilbert  walked  towards  them, 
and  a  brown,  bare-legged  little  urchin  ran  to  meet 
him,  shouting  "  Daddy  " — Phil,  sunburnt  and  rosy, 
and  very  wet  and  salt  and  sandy,  as  Gilbert  dis- 
covered when  he  kissed  him.  And  Samuel  was  wet 


190  ANNE 

and  salt  and  sandy  too,  and  wanted  to  lie  down  on 
his  boots.  Both  Phil  and  Samuel  were  glad  to  see 
him,  and  anxious  to  guide  him  to  the  right  bungalow. 
In  the  shade  of  the  smallest,  sitting  on  the  powdery 
dry  sand  of  the  dunes,  were  Anne  and  Marian. 
Marian  was  sketching  the  brown  wet  beach.  Anne 
was  reading  ;  she  raised  her  eyes  when  he  came  up 
to  them  and  fixed  them  on  the  horizon.  Marian 
greeted  him  hospitably  ;  Anne  did  not  speak  until 
he  said,  "  You  got  my  telegram  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  replied  with  the  polite  air  of  one 
newly  introduced  to  a  stranger.  "  Where  are  you 
staying  ?  " 

"  I'm  so  sorry  my  bungalow  is  so  tiny,"  Marian 
said  hastily.  "  Look  at  it !  " 

"  I'm  returning  to  London  to-night,"  Gilbert  said. 

"  I'll  go  in  and  see  about  tea,"  said  Marian  with 
tact.  "  You  must  be  thirsty  after  that  walk  across 
the  common." 

"  I'll  come  and  help  you,"  said  Anne,  and  she 
jumped  up  and  preceded  Marian  into  the  bungalow. 
Gilbert  was  left  with  Phil  and  Samuel.  They  were 
both  anxious  to  entertain  him.  The  tide  was  out, 
and  Phil  wished  to  go  down  to  the  reef  of  low  rocks  ; 
he  drew  an  alluring  picture  of  the  green  crabs  that 
inhabited  the  pools  among  the  seaweed.  Gilbert  had 
not  come  all  the  way  from  London  to  pursue  small 
green  crabs  that  evaded  capture  as  successfully  as 
Anne  was  avoiding  conversation.  But  Phil  took 
undisputed  possession  of  him,  and  chattered  un- 
rebuked  all  through  tea,  which  would  otherwise  have 
been  a  failure  as  a  social  function.  Anne  was  silent, 
and  Marian  started  topics  of  conversation  with  the 
self-conscious  care  of  a  burglar  striking  matches  in 


ANNE  191 

a  powder  magazine.  After  tea  Gilbert  addressed 
Anne  again. 

"  When  are  you  coming  home  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'll  let  you  know,"  was  the  reply,  and  again 
Marian  rescued  him  with  : 

"  Let  them  stay  as  long  as  they're  not  bored  and 
this  weather  lasts.  They  both  look  so  much  better 
already." 

When  it  became  time  for  him  to  start  on  his 
walk  back  to  the  station  for  the  London  train,  he 
said  : 

"  Walk  a  little  way  with  me,  Anne." 

"  I'd  rather  not.    I'm  tired." 

They  were  on  the  sands  outside  the  bungalow,  and 
Marian  disappeared  round  it,  leaving  them  alone 
together  as  she  had  tried  to  do  before,  only  Anne 
had  followed  her  as  closely  as  Samuel  followed  Phil. 

"  But  I've  not  had  a  word  with  you.  I  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  or  be  talked  to."  She  moved 
away  from  him,  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
left  her. 

He  walked  back  over  the  common  fuming  with 
rage.  He  had  expected  Anne  to  fall  into  his  arms.  He 
had  gone  down  with  the  most  virtuous  intention  of 
conferring  his  forgiveness  upon  her,  and  it  was 
humiliating  to  return  with  his  offer  not  only  un- 
accepted, but  the  very  need  for  its  existence  ignored. 
If  Anne  chose  to  behave  like  a  naughty,  spoilt  child 
he  resolved  to  treat  her  with  appropriate  dignity. 
He  faced  the  setting  sun  which  was  disappearing 
under  the  horizon  behind  a  group  of  pine  trees  in  a 
glory  of  dazzling  clouds — little  pink  clouds  floating 
like  the  feathers  from  some  wonderful  unknown  bird 


192  ANNE 

on  a  calm  stream  of  golden  light.  As  the  sun  sank, 
the  western  light  gathered  more  colour,  and  the  whole 
wide,  quiet  world  seemed  to  be  encircled  by  silent 
fire,  a  crucible  in  a  furnace.  The  little  feathery 
clouds  glowed  crimson  like  flames.  The  wet  brown 
swampy  creek  on  the  common  caught  the  light,  and 
the  dull  mud  became  as  burnished  metal ;  it  held 
the  light,  and  reflected  it  like  a  copper  prism,  break- 
ing it  into  innumerable  shades  of  primitive  colours, 
blending  them  into  a  fantastic  pool  of  radiance. 
The  beauty  of  the  scene  did  not  soothe  Gilbert.  The 
sun  went  down  upon  his  wrath. 

When  the  peaceful  world  was  irradiated  by  a  sun- 
set glow  that  changed  the  sea  into  a  lake  of  molten 
amethyst,  Marian  lit  a  cigarette  and  contemplated 
her  guest's  profile.  Phil  was  in  bed,  and  she  and  Anne 
were  sitting  on  the  sand-dunes.  Anne  played  idly 
with  the  fine  soft  sand,  letting  it  run  through  her 
fingers  like  dry  water  while  she  gazed  with  a  rapt 
expression  at  the  purple  lights  on  the  sea.  It  occurred 
to  Marian  that  she  was  looking  rather  proud  of  her- 
self. Marian  wondered  why. 

Anne  had  dreaded  the  meeting  with  Gilbert :  she 
was  so  afraid  that  the  fire  of  outraged  pride  and 
hate  and  anger  that  possessed  her  soul  and  enabled 
her  to  behave  with  courage  might  die  down,  and 
leave  her  in  a  cold  darkness  that  she  was  afraid 
to  face.  She  had  fed  the  fire  with  every  scrap  of 
fuel  she  could  ransack  from  the  storehouse  of  her 
memory.  Every  hasty  word  Gilbert  had  ever  said, 
every  selfish  thing  he  had  ever  done,  every  occasion 
when  he  had  failed  to  reach  her  standard  of  perfec- 
tion, she  had  laid  hands  on  and  threw  to  the  flames. 
And  when  that  supply  threatened  to  run  short  she 


ANNE  193 

went  gleaning  for  sticks  in  the  forest  of  her  imagina- 
tion. She  made  herself  very  angry  by  inventing 
unkind,  contemptuous  criticisms  of  herself  and 
attributing  them  to  Gilbert.  It  was  a  dreary,  painful 
pastime. 

Marian  privately  thought  that  Gilbert  had  come 
a  very  long  way  for  very  little  reward  :  she  wished 
the  coexistence  of  delicacy  and  curiosity  were  im- 
possible ;  as  it  was,  she  was  possessed  by  both,  and 
her  curiosity  had  to  go  hungry.  If  Marian  had 
questioned  her,  Anne  might  have  told  her  the  truth, 
and  might  have  accepted  good  advice.  But  she  was 
too  shy  to  give  unsought  confidence.  Instead,  she 
watched  the  narrowing  pathway  of  moonlight  on  the 
sea  as  the  full  moon  rose,  and  remarked  : 

**  Po£ts  are  quite  wrong  when  they  write  about  the 
golden  sunlight  on  the  water  and  the  silver  light  of 
the  moon.  Moonlight  on  the  water  is  yellow  and 
gold,  and  the  light  of  the  sun  is  white  and  silver." 

"  I  dare  say  quite  respectable  poets  can  be  colour- 
blind," said  Marian.  "  Do  you  remember  Matthew 
Arnold's  '  Ode  to  the  Nightingale  '  ?  He  calls  it 

*  tawny-throated ' ;  now,  if  the  man  had  ever  set  eyes 
on  a  nightingale  he'd  have  known  that  the  bird's 
throat  is  grey — the  rest  of  it  is  tawny  if  he  likes. 

*  Tawny-coated '    would    have    been    accurate,    and 
would  have  scanned  just  as  well." 

"  It  wouldn't  have  had  the  same  effect,"  Anne 
declared.  "  The  throat  is  the  nightingale's  strong 
point,  and  tawny  in  connection  with  a  throat  suggests 
port  to  lots  of  people.  I  daresay  that  was  what  was 
in  his  mind." 

"  That  the  bird  sings  as  if  it  were  drunk  with  new 
wine  ?  An  ingenious  mind  like  yours  is  wasted  in  a 


194  ANNE 

sane  domestic  household.  You  ought  to  take  up  the 
higher  criticism." 

"  John  Halliday  says  I've  no  critical  faculty." 

"  You  don't  need  one  for  the  higher  branch  of  the 
science — that  must  be  the  joy  of  it.  You  merely 
need  an  ingenious  mind.  You  just  assume  that  the 
author  you're  criticising  didn't  mean  what  his  words 
imply,  but  that  he  meant  something;  you'd  have  meant 
if  you'd  been  as  great  a  fool  as  you  imagine  he  must 
have  been.  Needless  to  say  you  choose  a  dead 
author.  Another  variety  of  the  game  is  to  assert 
that  your  author  never  existed.  You  give  some  ex- 
cellent reasons  why  he  ought  not  to  have  existed  at 
the  moment,  and  leave  the  burden  of  proving  his 
existence  on  the  orthodox  admirers  of  his  works. 
Of  course  in  this  case  you  must  choose  an  author 
who  has  been  dead  for  a  really  considerable  time. 
The  odds  are  that  the  orthodox  admirers  of  his  works 
won't  be  prepared  to  spend  the  rest  of  their  lives  in 
archaeological  research,  and  you  win  the  first  rubber. 
By  the  time  anyone  is  in  a  position  to  contradict  you, 
you're  probably  dead  and  past  minding." 

"  Do  you  think  that  when  one  is  dead  one  is  past 
minding  ?  "  Anne  asked  with  wistful  eyes. 

"  I  was  brought  up  to  believe  not,"  Marian  replied. 
"  I  lived  in  the  hope  that  I  was  deceived  for  some 
years  ;  now,  on  the  whole,  a  future  existence  in  which 
I  should  paint  better  than  I'm  ever  really  likely  to 
do  in  this  one  has  a  great  charm  for  me.  Perhaps 
dead  painters  who've  honestly  done  their  best  are 
allowed  to  dip  celestial  brushes  in  the  sunset  and 
decorate  the  sea." 

"  I  shall  never  paint  in  this  existence  or  any  other," 
Anne  said  sadly. 


ANNE  195 

"  Landscape  evidently  isn't  your  metier.  But  I 
saw  some  little  coloured  sketches  in  your  book  that 
seemed  to  me  very  clever." 

"  Those  were  only  little  things  I  painted  to  amuse 
Phil  when  he  was  ill :  they  didn't  amuse  him  in  the 
least." 

"  Let  me  see  them."  She  held  out  her  hand  for 
the  sketch-book,  and  turned  over  the  pages  by  the 
bright  light  of  the  moon  till  she  came  to  the  creatures 
of  Anne's  brain,  whimsical,  dainty  beings,  neither 
human  nor  faery,  wearing  quaint  bright  garments. 
They  were  drawn  and  coloured  with  something  of 
the  meticulous  realism  of  old  Chinese  paintings. 

"  Did  you  copy  these  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  just  made  them  up  out  of  my  head." 

"  Well,  they're  jolly  good  in  their  own  queer  way," 
said  Marian.  "  They're  so  gay  and  original.  Of 
course,  if  this  is  your  line  of  country,  Tindale's  studio 
was  the  wrong  school  for  you.  Who  put  you  there  ?  " 

**  I  just  put  myself  there." 

"  It's  a  pity  you  can't  just  put  yourself  in  Paris 
with  me  this  winter  and  study  under  Martin." 
Marian  spoke  regretfully,  and  was  startled  by  the 
response  the  idle  words  evoked.  Anne's  eyes  lit  up 
with  a  dancing,  sparkling  flash  of  pleasure  and 
excitement. 

"  Perhaps  I  will,"  she  said.  "  That's  a  splendid 
idea !  " 

"  What  would  your  husband  say  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know."  Anne's  voice  was  unnaturally 
indifferent. 

"  He  might  object  ?  " 

*'  He  might !  "  said  Anne  hopefully. 

Gilbert  dined  on  the  train,  and  reached  home  at 


196  ANNE 

ten  o'clock.  As  he  let  himself  in  with  his  latchkey 
the  telephone  bell  rang.  It  was  Laura  Blake,  ringing 
up  to  enquire  after  Phil. 

"  I'm  only  just  back,"  she  explained.  "  Don't 
you  think  it  very  charming  of  me  to  give  you  my 
first  thoughts  ?  " 

"  Charming  of  you  !  The  little  chap  is  splendid, 
at  the  seaside.  I've  just  been  down  to  sree  him." 

"  What  a  devoted  parent  you  are  !  "  There  was 
a  slight  hint  of  mockery  in  her  voice  :  she  contrived 
to  insinuate  that  though  concern  for  a  sick  child 
was  permissible,  there  was  something  bourgeois, 
Philistine,  and  commonplace  in  a  man  who  could 
be  interested  in  a  healthy  child  at  the  seaside. 
Gilbert's  vanity  felt  the  suggestion  as  a  tiny  midge 
bite  on  a  tender  skin,  just  something  to  be  brushed 
away. 

"  His  mother  is  with  him,"  he  said  casually  :  he 
said  "  his  mother "  instead  of  "  Anne  "  to  shake 
himself  free  from  the  odour  of  domesticity — it 
removed  Phil  from  his  lofty,  intellectual,  masculine 
sphere. 

"  Then  you're  alone,"  came  next,  and  the  vibra- 
tion of  the  telephone  wire  seemed  to  accentuate  the 
sympathy  in  her  voice. 

"  Yes,  '  alone  in  London.' ' 

"  So  am  I.    Why  don't  you  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

"  I  want  to.    When  shall  I  find  you  ?  " 

"  I  mean  now." 

"  Not  too  late  for  you  ?  " 

"  Late  ?    It  is  not  half-past  ten." 

The  delicate  tone  of  surprise  again  imputed  con- 
ventionality to  him.  In  one  of  their  conversations 
on  the  yacht  they  had  agreed  that  conventionality 


ANNE  197 

was  the  curse  of  life.  They  were  both  sincere  ;  for 
to  Laura  Blake  conventionality  meant  morality,  and 
she  was  not  moral :  and  to  Gilbert  the  word  was 
synonymous  with  artificiality,  and  he  was  not  arti- 
ficial. They  were  both  thoroughly  conventional. 

He  would  not  have  chosen  that  hour  to  call  at 
Grosvenor  Street.  He  was  tired.  But  he  felt  he  owed 
it  to  his  late  hostess  ;  besides,  he  was  sore  from  his 
encounter  with  Anne,  and  welcomed  the  prospect  of 
being  soothed  into  complacency.  In  Laura  Blake's 
company  he  found  it  easy  to  contemplate  Anne  from 
a  lofty  distance  of  toleration.  Laura  Blake  was  very 
clever  :  she  had  not  those  rare  qualities  of  intellect 
or  temperament  or  vitality  that  inspire  a  grateful 
contemporary  society  to  bestow  the  title  of  "  genius  " 
in  recognition  of  the  humbler  demands  on  life  of 
mediocrity  ;  but  she  coveted  the  privileges  that  went 
with  the  title  so  intently  that  she  cultivated  the 
pose  with  amazing  success.  It  is  easy  for  a  pretender 
to  usurp  the  minor  prerogatives  of  royalty  where  the 
subjects  are  unable  to  discern  the  imposture,  in 
territory  the  rightful  overlords  would  not  trouble  to 
conquer. 

She  spoke,  and  acted,  and  lived,  on  the  hypothesis 
that  she  and  all  those  whom  she  honoured  with  her 
friendship  were  above  all  restrictions  imposed  by  the 
bonds  of  virtues  and  considerations  that  applied  only 
to  mortals  lacking  some  vague  hall-mark  of  superiority 
that  she  had  never  deigned  to  define.  She  despised 
her  husband  and  all  gross  sinners  who  yielded  weakly 
to  the  temptations  of  passionate  humanity ;  but 
she  performed  some  strange  mental  ritual  whereby 
facts  underwent  a  strange  metempsychosis,  and 
emerged  clothed  in  different  and  purified  words. 


198  ANNE 

What,  in  an  unrarefied  atmosphere,  might  be  called 
sinful,  or  vicious,  or  ugly  by  a  plebeian  vocabulary 
became,  after  treatment,  free,  or  beautiful,  or  simple. 
She  didn't  say  an  ugly  book  was  beautiful,  she  called 
it  clever.  If  a  man  she  admired  deserted  his  wife 
and  child  to  enjoy  life  with  someone  he  found  more 
attractive,  Lady  Blake  would  not  say  it  was  kind 
or  virtuous  behaviour,  she  would  condone  it  by 
calling  him  wise.  She  sneered  at  decency  by  calling 
the  austerer  virtues  banal,  and  she  connived  at  evil 
by  labelling  the  vices  that  appealed  to  her  "  interest- 
ing "  or  "  original.'* 

This  evening  when  Gilbert  arrived  she  welcomed 
him  with  an  animation  that  flattered  him,  for  she  was 
generally  languorous.  She  was  looking  unusually 
handsome  clothed  in  purple  and  silver. 

"  How  nice  to  see  you  again,"  she  said  as  he  was 
ushered  into  her  drawing-room.  She  held  out  both 
her  hands,  and  as  the  door  closed  behind  the  man- 
servant, she  looked  intently  up  into  Gilbert's  face, 
and  said  coolly,  "  You  may  kiss  me  if  you  like." 

Gilbert  did  like  :  and  she  carried  off  the  situation 
gracefully.  Her  audacity  amused  Gilbert  and  in- 
fected him.  Her  recklessness  communicated  itself 
to  him.  After  all,  he  argued,  when  a  beautiful  woman 
throws  herself  at  a  man's  head,  what  can  a  man  do 
but  accept  her  at  her  own  valuation  ? 


CHAPTER   XV 

LAWRENCE  ACKROYD  returned  to  London  from  the 
Pyrenees  at  the  end  of  September,  and,  with  a  reluct- 
ance born  of  wide  vistas  in  clear  air,  he  resumed  work 
in  his  chambers  in  Crown  Court.  London  is  not  at 
its  best  at  the  close  of  a  fine  hot  summer  ;  the  trees 
are  dry-leaved  and  dusty ;  the  soft  wet  mist  that 
loves  and  lingers  in  the  streets  for  so  many  months, 
softening  the  harsh  perspective,  and  creating  lovely 
mysterious  blue  distances  out  of  unpromising 
material,  cannot  contend  with  the  bright  yellow  light 
of  the  sun  that  is  ripening  northern  harvest  fields. 
London  has  very  little  share  of  the  beauties  of 
autumn.  In  the  Temple  the  grass  was  brown  and 
the  giant  plane  trees  were  shedding  too  many  leaves. 
There  was  no  high-spirited  wind  to  play  with  them 
and  give  them  one  rollicking  taste  of  freedom  before 
they  died  ;  they  just  drifted  down  and  lay  flat  in  the 
dust,  looking  tired  and  disappointed  ;  and  the  air 
was  redolent  of  some  innocuous  disinfectant  with 
which  credulous  municipal  authorities  had  been 
watering  the  streets. 

The  documents  awaiting  examination  lay  on  his 
writing-table,  each  tied  up  neatly  with  pink  tape. 
He  was  briefed  to  defend  a  blackmailer,  a  shipping 
company  whose  vessel  had  collided  with  and  damaged 
one  of  His  Majesty's  torpedo-boats,  and  a  guileless 

199 


200  ANNE 

undergraduate  who  had  eloped  with  a  ward  in 
Chancery :  to  prosecute  a  building  company  for 
the  infringements  of  Ancient  Lights,  the  curator  of 
a  provincial  museum  for  selling  an  Egyptian  mummy 
and  appropriating  the  cash,  and  the  proprietors  and 
editor  of  a  weekly  organ  of  public  opinion  in  whose 
pages  the  truth  about  a  popular  Labour  leader 
had  inadvertently  been  published.  By  some  strange 
alchemy,  out  of  the  base  metals  of  human  error 
and  weakness  and  crime,  the  gold  of  human  justice 
was  transmuted,  alloyed  with  strange  stuff,  fluxed 
with  human  tears,  but  true  gold  in  the  end — that 
was  Lawrence  Ackroyd's  ultimate  faith  in  the 
spirit  and  tradition  that  dwelt  in  the  Temples  from 
generation  to  generation,  that  moved  upon  the  troubled 
waters  of  humanity  surging  through  the  channel  of  the 
Law  Courts  where  his  life's  work  was  anchored. 

He  decided  to  allow  himself  a  day's  respite.  He 
rang  up  Anne  Trevor  and  asked  her  to  go  with  him 
to  a  matinee.  She  was  just  home,  she  said  over  the 
telephone,  and  alone.  Gilbert  was  down  at  Crane 
Hall  having  a  new  roof  put  on  the  house ;  she  would 
be  delighted  to  come  to  the  theatre.  He  took  seats 
for  a  new  play  by  Pinero,  and  looked  forward  with 
pleasure  to  telling  Anne  the  most  entertaining 
incidents  of  his  adventures  in  Spain  ;  she  was  so 
pretty  when  she  laughed,  and  when  she  was  in- 
terested she  listened  as  an  enthralled  child  listens  to 
a  fairy  story.  So  many  women  interrupted,  asked 
silly  questions,  or  wanted  to  narrate  their  own 
experiences. 

The  play  was  a  success.  He  was  lucky  enough  to 
get  good  stalls  ;  Anne  looked  charming,  and  enjoyed 
the  performance.  Afterwards  they  went  to  have 


ANNE  201 

tea.  He  suggested  his  Club,  but  she  wished  to  go  to 
a  new  tea-room  which  she  declared  was  the  smartest 
place  in  London. 

It  was  a  little  late  when  they  found  the  place.  It 
was  half  empty.  They  chose  a  table  by  an  open 
window,  and  he  was  amused  by  Anne's  impartial 
appreciation  of  his  conversation  and  the  varieties  of 
sweet  cakes  provided  by  the  establishment.  Before 
they  had  finished  tea  the  adjacent  table  immediately 
behind  them  was  taken  by  two  women  who  had  also 
been  to  a  matinee.  He  noticed  them  as  they  came 
in,  and  reflected  that,  compared  with  Anne,  other 
women's  voices  were  too  loud  and  their  clothes  of 
an  exaggerated  fashion.  He  continued  the  anecdote 
he  was  relating,  but  every  word  the  two  strangers 
uttered  was  audible.  Presently — 

"  Have  you  seen  the  Blakes  lately  ?  "  one  woman 
enquired.  Her  companion  replied :  "I  was 
lunching  with  Laura  on  Sunday.  Charles  was 
away  for  the  week-end." 

"  I  know,  and  I  know  where  he  was  too.  How- 
ever, it  is  lucky  for  her  he's  so  fast  himself.  She 
knows  he  can  never  divorce  her.  He'd  never  get 
a  decree  with  his  record  behind  him." 

Lawrence  Ackroyd  fidgeted.  It  was  distasteful 
to  him  that  Anne  should  overhear  the  conversation  ; 
if  she  had  finished  tea  he  would  have  made  an  excuse 
for  getting  her  away,  but  she  hadn't  finished  ;  she 
had  just  taken  a  pink  iced  cake  and  was  urging 
him  to  have  one  too. 

"They're  awfully  good,"  she  said.  "They've 
got  chocolate  and  jam  inside." 

"  I'm  much  too  old  !  I  can  only  enjoy  them 
vicariously  by  seeing  you  tackle  anything  so  horribly 


202  ANNE 

indigestible."  He  raised  his  voice  so  that  the  two 
strangers  might  realise  that  their  conversation  was 
overheard,  but  they  were  garbed  in  some  impervious 
armour  of  egotism,  and  were  supremely  indifferent 
as  to  whether  they  were  overheard  or  not.  Worse 
followed ;  though  he  made  a  desperate  attempt 
to  drown  their  words  it  was  futile. 

"  Who's  Laura's  latest  captive  ?  "    came  later. 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  It's  that  good-looking 
youngish  man  she's  been  running  after  for  months, 
Gilbert  Trevor.  Jack  met  them  at  Maidenhead 
together,  of  all  places  !  He  says  I'm  to  cut  her, 
so  silly  you  know — as  if  one  could  !  " 

Lawrence  sat  there  paralysed  into  silence,  internally 
cursing  all  women  who  gossiped,  especially  all  women 
who  gossiped  in  tea-shops,  and  the  two  unknown 
women  in  particular  :  then  he  cursed  himself  for 
bringing  Anne  to  the  place,  and  for  having  been 
unable  to  shield  her ;  before  he  had  time  to  curse 
Gilbert,  he  had  to  make  an  effort  to  adjust  the 
situation.  Anne  had  turned  very  red,  and  then  very, 
very  white,  and  she  laid  the  pink  cake  down  on  her 
plate. 

"  What  insufferable  women  !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  What  utterly  abominable  behaviour.  .  .  .  My 
dear,"  his  voice  changed,  "  you  mustn't  allow 
yourself  to  be  hurt  by  a  chance  lie  from  ill-natured, 
ill-bred  scandalmongers." 

Anne  crumbled  the  pink  cake  with  trembling 
fingers,  and  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  pitiful 
bewildered  hesitation,  almost  like  a  child  con- 
fronted with  an  unconceived-of  situation  searching 
for  guidance  from  an  elder  guardian.  She  had  had 
a  great  shock,  but  the  expression  in  Lawrence 


ANNE  203 

Ackroyd's  eyes  roused  her  to  exert  herself  to  decide 
how  to  take  it.  He  looked  so  sorry  that  she  knew  he 
believed  that  the  truth  had  been  spoken,  and  she 
could  not  bear  to  be  pitied.  He  said  something  wise 
and  kind  but  she  didn't  listen.  She  drank  some 
tea  hastily  because  something  was  throbbing  in 
her  throat,  preventing  her  speaking,  and  she  had  to 
speak. 

At  last  she  half  whispered  : 

"  You  won't  tell  anyone,  will  you  ?  I  think  I'll 
go  home  now."  He  was  about  to  say  something 
but  she  stopped  him.  "  I'm  stupid  now — I  can't 
talk.  My  head  aches  I  think." 

She  was  evidently  suffering.  His  heart  ached  for 
her,  but  he  could  do  nothing  to  help  her  at  the 
moment.  The  mixture  of  dignity  and  ingenuousness 
with  which  she  was  bearing  herself  made  it  im- 
possible for  him  to  guess  whether  sympathy  or 
unconcern  would  be  the  most  judicious  covering  in 
which  to  convey  his  conviction  that  the  strangers 
had  grossly  libelled  Gilbert  and  Lady  Blake.  He 
had  no  such  conviction,  but  it  was  his  intention  to 
manufacture  one  and  present  it  to  Anne  with  all 
the  dialectic  skill  at  his  command. 

"  When  shall  I  see  you  again  ?  "  he  asked  as  he 
followed  her  down  the  stairs. 

"  May  I  come  and  see  you  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  would."  They  were  in  Bond  Street 
and  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  put  her  into 
a  taxi  and  make  an  appointment  for  the  next  day. 

She  arrived  at  Crown  Court  the  following  after- 
noon, and  when  she  came  into  his  austere  gloomy 
room  she  brought  with  her  the  effect  of  a  nosegay 
of  fresh  flowers  ;  but  in  spite  of  her  pretty  clothes  she 


204  ANNE 

looked  wretched.  She  bore  herself  with  a  gallant 
but  artificial  air  of  assurance,  for  all  the  world,  he 
thought,  like  Phil  when  he  had  done  something 
reprehensible  and  had  made  up  his  young  mind  to 
betray  neither  contrition  nor  anxiety.  But  behind 
her  defiant  little  smile  of  bravado  there  was  a  piteous 
quivering  anguish  she  could  not  entirely  conceal. 
He  intuitively  discerned  that  it  would  be  merciful 
to  pretend  to  be  unobservant.  He  installed  her  in 
his  deep  leather  arm-chair  and  sat  at  his  writing- 
table. 

"  I've  come  to  ask  your  advice,"  she  said  ner- 
vously. 

"  I  hoped  you  had."  He  fixed  his  eyeglass  in  his 
eye  and  leant  back  with  his  elbows  on  the  wooden 
arms  of  his  chair  and  his  finger-tips  together.  Then 
she  nearly  startled  him  out  of  his  studied  air  of 
professional  detachment. 

"  It  is  about  divorcing  Gilbert,"  she  said  in  a  low 
hurried  voice  as  if  she  were  ashamed  of  the  law  books 
on  the  walls  overhearing  her. 

"  Mrs.  Trevor,"  he  said  gravely,  "  surely  you 
don't  mean  to  say  you're  judging  and  condemning 
your  husband  on  the  careless  word  of  a  very  thought- 
less stranger.  Believe  me,  I'm  speaking  as  a  counsel 
with  twenty  years'  experience.  Put  it  out  of  your 
mind." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Anne,  "  because  it  is  true.  I  knew 
it  before." 

"  You  knew  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Then  to  his  intense  distress  her  lips  quivered,  and 
she  broke  down  into  a  passion  of  tears.  He  knelt 
by  her  chair  and,  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  his 


ANNE  205 

life,  he  wished  he  were  a  woman  so  that  he  could  take 
her  in  his  arms  and  try  to  comfort  her.  All  he 
could  do  was  to  stammer  helplessly  : 

"  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  cry.  My  dear,  I  can't 
bear  you  to  cry  so." 

She  wept  like  a  broken-hearted  child  for  a  few 
minutes,  then,  with  a  strong  effort  of  self-control,  she 
stopped  herself.  He  walked  away  to  the  window 
to  give  her  time  to  recover  her  self-possession.  While 
he  stood  there  waiting  he  became  conscious  that, 
although  his  mind  had  been  assiduously  preparing 
a  plausible  presentation  of  a  case  that  should  restore 
to  Anne  her  faith  in  her  husband's  integrity,  his 
imagination  had  been  otherwise  employed.  He  was 
confronted  with  the  alternative  of  doing  precisely 
the  opposite,  of  assuming  the  worst,  playing  authori- 
tatively for  his  own  hand  and  his  own  heart,  trying 
to  set  Anne  free  from  her  husband  who  had  proved 
unworthy  of  her,  in  order  to  marry  her  himself.  He 
knew  now  that  he  adored  her,  that  he  would  never 
love  anyone  else.  If  she  were  free  he  could  win  her. 
It  was  a  sudden  and  a  strong  temptation.  He  felt 
it  was  in  his  power  to  succeed  ;  it  was,  at  any  rate, 
in  his  power  to  try.  He  faced  and  fought  the  attrac- 
tion of  the  idea  for  a  few  long  difficult  seconds  ;  then 
he  broke  the  spell  with  an  effort.  Anne  had  come 
to  him  for  help :  he  knew  he  could  not  look  into  her 
very  candid,  clear,  childlike  eyes  and  advise  her 
basely.  As  he  waited  while  she  dried  her  eyes  he 
swept  the  sympathy  that  welled  up  from  his  sensitive 
and  tender  heart  away  into  the  cells  where  it  came 
from,  locked  it  in  and  dropped  the  key.  She  needed 
the  help  of  his  brain,  not  his  emotions.  He  marshalled 
his  thoughts  and  his  keen  intellect  in  the  spirit  with 


206  ANNE 

which  a  knight  in  the  days  of  chivalry,  suddenly  sum- 
moned to  enter  the  lists,  would  have  struggled  into 
his  armour.  When  he  returned  to  his  chair  and 
spoke,  his  voice  was  quite  impersonal. 

"  Now  tell  me  what  your  trouble  is.  Remember 
you're  speaking  in  absolute  confidence  to  a  hardened 
King's  Counsel  who  has  seen  more  sin  and  misery 
and  unhappiness  than  you  have  ever  dreamed  of. 
Nothing  you  tell  me  will  either  surprise  or  shock 
me.  I'm  too  old  a  hand.  Don't  hesitate  to  tell  me 
anything  from  mistaken  motives  of  loyalty.  A  nice 
woman's  general  instinct  is  to  suppress  something 
that  has  appalled  her.  It  will  not  appal  me." 

Anne  looked  past  his  head  at  the  open  window 
and  told  him,  in  a  steady  voice,  precisely  as  much 
as  she  had  intended  to  tell  him. 

"  Gilbert  and  I  quarrelled  in  August.    He  was  very 
unjust  to  me,  and  I  was  angry.     I  was  perfectly 
right  to  be  angry.    He  was  absolutely  in  the  wrong, 
and  said  things  I  shall  never  forgive  .  .  ." 
"  One  moment.    He  spoke  to  you  in  anger  ?  " 
"  Yes,  and  he'd  no  business  to  be  angry." 
"  What  was  the  origin  of  the  quarrel  ?  " 
Anne  flushed,  her  lips  quivered,  and  she  remained 
silent. 

"  Very  well.  I  won't  press  it." 
"  We  didn't  quarrel  about — anybody.  I  never 
thought  of  not  trusting  him.  .  .  .  Then  I  took  Phil 
to  the  seaside  ;  it  was  just  after  his  operation  you 
know.  Then  I  went  to  stay  with  my  sister-in-law. 
Gilbert  was  in  London.  I  came  back  last  week  and 
then  he'd  gone  to  Norfolk.  He  never  wrote  or  cared 
that  we'd  quarrelled.  Our  marriage  was  a  mistake. 
I  realise  that  now." 


ANNE  207 

He  hesitated.  She  was  evidently  keeping  back  as 
much  as  she  could :  he  was  quite  used  to  that,  nice 
women  were  usually  very  bad  witnesses.  Yet  it 
was  evidently  costing  her  so  much  to  divulge  as 
much  of  the  case  as  she  had  done  that  he  decided  to 
spare  her  the  examination  she  shrank  from. 

"  I  won't  preach  to  you,"  he  said  cautiously. 
"  And  it  takes  two  people  to  hallow  forgiveness,  so 
I  won't  urge  you  to  forgive  your  husband,  if  he 
hasn't  sought  forgiveness." 

"  It  would  be  no  use,"  said  Anne  with  some 
spirit. 

"  Very  well.  And  you've  thought  of  the  child  ?  " 
"  Yes.  Of  course  I  should  have  Phil." 
"  Very  well.  We  start  upon  the  supposition  that 
you've  discovered  that  your  marriage  was  a  mistake, 
and  that  the  discovery  has  destroyed  your  happiness. 
That  is  a  tragedy,  and  you  are  sensitive,  capable  of 
suffering.  I  hoped  life  would  deal  very  gently  with 
you.  Apparently  it  isn't  doing  so.  But  you've 
courage,  you're  not  afraid  to  face  things,  and  courage 
is  given  us  not  only  to  face  things,  but  to  go  through 
with  them.  If  you've  made  a  mistake,  mistakes  have 
to  be  paid  for.  Somebody  has  to  pay.  It  is  honest 
to  pay  for  one's  mistakes  oneself,  otherwise  someone 
else  has  to.  That  is  elementary  science  and  morality, 
but  it  is  surprising  how  few  people  recognise  it  as 
an  inevitable  law.  Nowadays  society  devotes  much 
of  its  intellect  and  energy  into  trying  to  make  the 
elementary  virtues  superfluous.  Luckily  we  can't 
do  it.  But  we've  invented  the  Divorce  Court.  People 
who've  given  drafts  on  life  they're  not  prepared  to 
honour  are  provided  with  a  way  out.  They  can 
cut  their  loss,  go  through  the  matrimonial  bank- 


208  ANNE 

ruptcy  court.  Part  of  the  penalty  is  shifted  on  to  the 
children's  shoulders.  The  child  pays  part  of  the 
price  for  the  parents'  mistake.  He  is  deprived 
either  of  part  of  his  rightful  inheritance,  pride  in 
his  father's  name,  or  given  a  lower  ideal  of  virtue 
and  conduct  than  happier  children." 

"  Then  you  think  I  needn't  divorce  Gilbert  ?  " 
she  said,  and  to  his  surprise  there  was  relief  in  her 
voice. 

"  Divorce  isn't  compulsory  in  this  country  yet, 
thank  God.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand. 
You  don't  want  a  divorce  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  she  said  in  a  shamed  voice.  "  Unless 
you  think  I  ought  to  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  ?  " 

"  I  was  afraid  you'd  despise  me  if  I  didn't — that 
people  might  have  contempt  for  me.  ..."  She  rose 
and  half  turned  away. 

"  I  despise  you  for  being  magnanimous,  and 
generous,  and  loyal !  "  He  took  her  hand  and  lifted 
it  to  his  lips. 

"  I'm  not,"  she  said  quickly  ;  "  don't  praise  me. 
It  is  merely  that  I  don't  want  anyone  to  know ; 
not  even  Juliet.  I  don't  want  anyone  to  know  or 
to  pity  me.  I  should  hate  it." 

"  Don't  depreciate  yourself  by  invoking  a  poor 
motive  for  a  fine  course  of  action.  And  believe  me, 
I've  seen  more  of  life  than  you  have.  It  will  all 
come  right.  Men  are  curiously  composite  creatures. 
Your  husband  may  be  estranged  for  the  moment, 
but  it  won't  last." 

"  Yes,  it  will,"  said  Anne  obstinately.  "  I'm 
estranged  now.  Our  marriage  was  all  a  mistake." 

He  said  to  himself  that  she  had  pride  as  well  as 


ANNE  209 

courage  to  carry  her  through.  She  pulled  down  her 
veil,  collected  her  little  possessions — her  gloves,  her 
damp  ball  of  a  cambric  handkerchief,  and  her  purse. 
He  walked  with  her  into  Fleet  Street  and  hailed  her 
a  cab. 

"  Where  shall  I  tell  him  to  drive  you  ?  " 
"  To    Cumberland    Market,  Camden    Town.      I'm 
going  to   see   John   Halliday.     And    thank   you   so 
much." 

He  repeated  the  address,  and  walked  back  down 
Middle  Temple  Lane  with  mixed  feelings.  His 
devotion  to  her  was  exalted  by  the  interview  ;  but 
he  would  have  been  better  pleased  if  she  had  not 
thought  it  necessary  to  ask  him  not  to  tell  Juliet ; 
and  if  he  could  have  felt  he  was  her  only  masculine 
friend,  instead  of  her  having  reminded  him  of  the 
existence  of  John  Halliday.  He  assured  himself 
that  such  hypersensitiveness  was  sentimental  and 
not  to  be  fostered.  He  returned  to  his  work,  and 
looked  up  precedents  for  disputes  between  the 
Lords  of  the  Admiralty  and  Captains  of  the  Mercantile 
Marine,  and  Anne's  blue  eyes  haunted  the  pages  he 
turned. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

ANNE  arrived  at  the  printing  works  in  Camden 
Town  at  John's  busiest  hour.  He  was  dictating 
letters  to  his  shorthand-typist.  The  girl,  Molly 
Campbell,  was  the  daughter  of  the  manager,  and 
had  been  recently  promoted  from  less  important 
work  in  her  father's  office.  The  honour  of  her  upward 
step  in  life  had  brought  her  what  such  honours  do 
not  always  bring,  more  amusement.  Mr.  Halliday 
had  an  ingratiating  way  of  taking  her  into  his  con- 
fidence during  the  composition  of  business  missives : 
would  hesitate  between  two  choice  phrases  of  invec- 
tive or  politeness,  and  ask  her  which  she  considered 
to  be  the  more  ferocious,  or  conciliating.  He  was 
a  more  human  taskmaster  than  her  father.  He 
admired  the  speed  with  which  she  followed  his 
dictation,  and  the  skill  which  enabled  her  to  decipher 
the  mysterious  symbols  inscribed  in  the  pages  of 
her  shorthand  notebook.  Her  father  merely  grunted 
when  her  work  or  conduct  was  meritorious  ;  when 
it  wasn't,  he  reminded  her  grimly  that  he  had  paid 
as  much  as  six  guineas  for  the  completion  of  her 
education  at  a  Commercial  College,  that  he  would 
stand  no  nonsense,  and  that  he  would  show  her  the 
folly  of  expecting  any  human  being  to  have  patience 
with  her.  She  respected  her  father's  judgment, 
and  his  temper,  and  everything  that  was  his,  but 

210 


ANNE  211 

she  preferred  working  for  John.  And  when  the  door 
of  the  dingy  office  opened  and  Anne  walked  in, 
she  felt  she  was  really  seeing  life.  Her  round  brown 
eyes  opened  almost  as  wide  as  the  door.  Young 
ladies  dressed  in  delicious  clothes  were  astonishing 
apparitions  in  the  printing  works  at  Camden  Town. 
The  rapturous  alacrity  with  which  John  leapt  to 
his  feet  and  welcomed  his  visitor  was  not  so  astonish- 
ing. 

"  Anne ! "  he  exclaimed  joyfully.  Then  he 
hurriedly  dismissed  Molly  with  :  "  Thanks  awfully, 
Miss  Campbell.  That  will  do  for  just  now." 

Nineteen-year-old  Molly  went  reluctantly,  she 
would  have  liked  another  lingering  glance  at  Anne — 
at  the  wreath  of  blue  flowers  on  her  hat,  her  fine 
filmy  veil,  her  cream  chiffon  blouse,  the  string  of 
green  jade  beads  round  her  pretty  neck,  the  dark 
blue  silk  coat  and  skirt,  her  grey  silk  stockings  and 
grey  suede  buckled  shoes,  her  white  gloves.  Molly 
noted  all  this  in  the  few  seconds  that  elapsed  between 
Anne's  entrance  and  her  own  exit ;  yet  Molly's  own 
father  said  she  was  unobservant. 

John  put  his  own  chair  for  Anne  and  sat  on  the 
table,  grinning  at  her  ecstatically. 

"  This  is  simply  ripping  of  you,  Anne !  When 
did  you  get  back  ?  And  how's  Phil  ?  " 

"  He's  splendid,  and  I  got  back  a  day  or  two  ago. 
Did  you  have  a  nice  holiday  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thanks.  I  went  to  St.  Hilda's  Bay  to  our 
old  rooms  at  Mrs.  Mugford's.  Had  some  jolly  walks 
on  the  moors.  The  old  woman's  just  the  same,  poor 
old  dame.  I  showed  her  that  photograph  of  you 
and  Phil  and  she  said  :  '  Ain't  he  the  spitting  image 
of  his  mother,  the  pretty  lamb  ! '  Somehow  the 


212  ANNE 

juxtaposition  of  '  spitting  '  and  '  lamb  '  seemed  to 
hit  Phil  off  perfectly  !  She  sent  you  her  best  respects 
and  asked  whether  you'd  still  got  your  lovely  head 
of  hair,  and  wondered  whether  you  still  hated  having 
it  washed  !  I  explained  that  it  hardly  came  within 
my  province  to  enquire  nowadays." 

Anne  laughed  with  wistful  lips. 

"  They  were  jolly  days,"  she  said. 

"  They  were  !  It  brought  it  all  back.  Nothing 
has  changed,  except  that  they've  built  a  brand  new 
hotel  on  the  west  cliff,  and  some  hideous  little  red- 
brick villas  all  up  the  hill  on  the  south  side  of  the 
harbour,  the  nice  hill  that  was  covered  with  bracken. 
By  the  way,  have  you  had  tea  ?  " 

"  No.    Are  you  going  to  give  me  some  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  there  isn't  a  very  nice  place  about 
here.  If  I'd  only  known  you  were  coming  !  "  He 
opened  the  door,  and  shouted  up  the  stairs.  "  I  say, 
Miss  Campbell,  do  you  think  you  could  be  a  brick  and 
produce  a  cup  of  tea  for  Mrs.  Trevor  ? — I  know  those 
girls  have  some,"  he  explained. 

Molly  Campbell  would  have  been  willing  to  brew 
mead  or  hippocras  if  she  had  ever  heard  of  such 
beverages,  and  if  their  concoction  would  have  given 
her  a  second  glimpse  of  Anne.  She  came  shyly  into 
the  room  with  a  brown  teapot,  a  thick  pink-rimmed 
cup  and  saucer,  milk  in  a  glass  jug,  and  a  plate  full 
of  biscuits.  She  arranged  them  with  slow  particu- 
larity on  the  table,  and  stole  soul-satisfying  glances 
at  Anne. 

"  What  a  pretty  girl  that  is,"  Anne  remarked  -when 
Molly  had  unwillingly  gone  away  again. 

"  Is  she  ?  "  said  John,  bent  on  extricating  a  fly 
from  the  milk-jug  with  a  pencil.  Molly  had  black 


ANNE  213 

hair,  dark  eyes,  and  a  pale  brown  face  :  his  ideas  of 
beauty  included  blue  eyes,  pale  gold  hair,  and  a  fair 
complexion.  Privately  he  thought  Molly  insignifi- 
cant. 

"  She's  very  good.  Give  me  a  girl  for  a  secretary 
any  day.  They  don't  come  to  the  office  in  the 
morning  with  their  hand  shaking  because  they've 
been  drunk  the  night  before,  and  they  don't  want  to 
borrow  their  lunch  money  from  the  petty  cash  the 
day  after  the  Grand  National,  nor  lose  relations  at 
inconvenient  days  when  there  are  cheap  excursions 
to  Epsom  or  Kempton  Park.  Is  the  tea  all  right  ?  " 

She  was  stirring  hers  slowly,  apparently  as  much 
absorbed  in  the  operation  as  if  she  believed  that  by 
stirring  it  assiduously  she  could  change  Ceylon  into 
China  tea  and  was  determined  to  do  it.  She  was 
thinking.  She  had  one  strong  motive  for  not  letting 
John  know  that  anything  was  the  matter — her  own 
pride  ;  but  now  she  bethought  herself  of  another  ; 
to  know  of  her  unhappiness  would  make  him  miser- 
able. Pride  buttressed  by  unselfishness  is  an  unim- 
pregnable  defence  when  the  citadel  is  a  resolution 
and  its  garrison  a  woman.  She  smiled  at  him  at 
last  with  a  guileless  smile  that  would  have  deceived 
a  more  suspicious  man  than  her  host  was. 

"  I've  come  partly  on  business,"  she  said.  "  You're 
my  trustee,  and  I  want  some  of  my  money,  some  of 
the  capital — two  or  three  hundred  pounds  at  least." 

John  pushed  his  cup  away  and  took  a  biscuit  to 
give  himself  time  to  consider  this. 

"  I  don't  think  your  trustees  ought  to  let  you 
dip  into  your  capital.  What  does  Gilbert  say  ?  " 

"  I've  not  told  him  yet.  He  won't  say  anything 
if  you  agree." 


214  ANNE 

"  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  touch  your  capital. 
It's  all  you've  got  you  know,  and  it  isn't  much." 

"  J  know,  that's  exactly  it.  I  want  to  make  some 
more." 

"  Really  you  know — if  you  want  to  play  about 
with  it  I  won't  agree  to  you  having  a  penny,  and 
I'm  quite  sure  Gilbert  won't." 

"  It  is  my  money  after  all." 

"  Yes,  and  it's  our  duty  to  see  that  it  remains 
yours.  Your  father  lost  all  you  ought  to  have  had. 
He  gambled  with  it,  threw  it  away." 

"  You  don't  think  I  want  to  gamble  with  it,  do 
you  ?  " 

"  No — don't  get  rusty,  Anne  !  But  I  suppose  you 
want  to  speculate  with  it.  You  say  you  want  to 
make  some  more  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  want  to  make  more,  one  hundred  and 
five  pounds  a  year  is  only  twenty-six  pounds  every 
three  months." 

John  looked  worried.    Had  Anne  got  into  debt  ? 

"  Of  course  I  know  it  isn't  my  business  to  ask  what 
you  want  it  for.  .  .  ." 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  she  said  eagerly,  "  only  it  is  a 
secret  at  present.  I  want  to  go  to  Paris." 

"  Make  Gilbert  take  you." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  with  Gilbert.  I  want  to  go 
by  myself  and  stay  all  the  winter,  an<J  study  paint- 
ing." 

"  But  what  for  ?  " 

"  Because  I  want  to.  Oh,  John  !  Now  I've  told 
you,  you  might  help  me  !  " 

"  How  can  I  ?  You're  a  perfect  babe  if  you  think 
a  trustee  is  a  sort  of  money-box.  It  would  be  awfully 
wrong  of  me,  Anne." 


ANNE  215 

She  was  silent  with  the  displeased  certainty  that 
John  wouldn't  give  in  if  he  had  conceived  the  notion 
that  it  would  be  wrong  if  he  did.  He  was  silent 
because  the  glamour  of  pure  joy  had  vanished  from 
the  little  office  :  he  had  refused  Anne  something  and 
she  was  vexed,  on  the  point  of  quarrelling  with  him. 
He  could  think  of  nothing  to  say. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  remarked  at  last,  quite  cheer- 
fully. John  couldn't  be  sure  whether  the  expression 
was  to  be  taken  as  a  threat  or  an  olive  branch. 
They  chatted  happily  enough  till  she  rose  to  go. 
Her  last  words  were  :  "I  shall  get  the  money  and 
I  shall  go  to  Paris." 

She  did. 

She  sold  her  jewellery,  sent  a  telegram  to  Francesca 
asking  her  to  keep  an  eye  on  Phil,  and  joined  Marian 
Wyndham  at  Dover  the  day  before  Gilbert  was 
returning  to  London  from  Norfolk. 

Marian  was  glad  to  see  her.  She  was  erratic  her- 
self, and  had  a  kindred  feeling  for  Anne  which  had 
mingled  with  solicitude  for  her  and  become  affection. 
She  admired  Anne ;  admired  her  prettiness  and 
grace,  she  herself  being  gaunt  and  ungraceful,  and 
she  admired  her  pluck  which  she  recognised  and 
understood.  But  there  was  something  else  she 
recognised  and  did  not  understand  as  they  stood  on 
deck  together  watching  the  Dover  cliffs  extend 
horizontally  as  the  steamer  raced  away  from  them. 

"  You  know  this  is  very  jolly,  Anne  Trevor," 
she  said  as  she  lit  her  inevitable  cigarette.  "  But  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  kidnapping.  I  don't  say  that  doesn't 
add  to  the  jollity,  but  I'd  like  to  know  where  I  am. 
What  line  do  I  take  when  your  infuriated  husband 
tracks  you  to  my  flat  and  asks  me  what  the  devil 


216  ANNE 

I  mean  by  enticing  you  away  ?  What  the  devil  do 
I  mean  ?  " 

"  I'm  twenty-four,"  said  Anne. 

"  Are  you  ?  Well  you  don't  look  it.  You  look 
seventeen,  and  you  are  a  baby  you  know." 

"  I  don't  feel  it,"  Anne  said  passionately  ;  her 
underlip  trembled,  and  she  turned  away  and  leant 
on  the  rail  with  her  eyes  on  the  horizon. 

Marian  threw  her  cigarette  in  the  sea  and  leant 
on  the  rail  beside  her. 

"  What's  wrong,  my  dear  ?  Of  course  you  needn't 
tell  me  if  you  don't  want  to,  but  a  blind  woman 
could  see  that  something  was  the  matter.  Don't 
answer  if  you'd  rather  not,  and  I  won't  ask  any 
more." 

"  I've  quarrelled  with  my  husband.     He — he  .  .  ." 

"  He's  like  other  men  I  suppose,"  said  Marian 
gently,  with  an  undercurrent  of  bitterness  in  her 
voice.  "  And  you've  just  found  it  out  and  it  hurts 
like  sin.  I  know." 

"  Our  marriage  was  a  mistake,'*  said  Anne  mechani- 
cally. She  found  that  a  helpful  formula,  it  covered 
both  her  pride  and  her  innate  loyalty  to  Gilbert. 

"  Most  marriages  are,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Marian. 
"  I  dare  say  you're  very  sensible  to  come  away  for 
a  bit.  The  only  cures  for  trouble  in  this  world  are 
work  and  beauty.  I  don't  think  we  are  really  properly 
grateful  for  either."  She  watched  Anne's  patheti- 
cally tragic  little  face  for  a  moment,  and  then  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  north  where  the  blue  sea  ended  in  a 
dark  horizon  against  the  pale  sky.  "  Have  you  ever 
thought  what  a  very  mysterious  thing  the  horizon 
at  sea  is  ?  "  she  asked.  "  The  line  of  it  I  mean  ? 
Any  section  of  it  is  as  straight  as  a  stretched  bow- 


ANNE  217 

string,  yet  the  whole  is  a  perfect  circle.  It  is  the 
demonstration  of  the  perfection  of  the  definition 
of  a  straight  line  as  '  part  of  the  circumference  of 
a  circle  whose  centre  is  at  infinity.'  It  always  com- 
forts me.  It  seems  to  prove  that  infinity  is  in  our- 
selves." 

Anne  was  not  ready  to  be  comforted  by  any 
philosophical  wisdom  :  but  she  was  grateful  to  Marian 
for  being  unemotional  and  unhuman.  She  could  not 
have  borne  any  conventional  sympathy  or  advice. 
She  was  as  forlorn  and  desolate  as  a  shipwrecked 
child,  and,  like  a  child,  she  yielded  to  the  healthy 
instincts  of  youth,  shrank  from  morbid  dwelling  on 
the  catastrophe,  and  became  engrossed  in  the  resul- 
tant adventure.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was 
at  liberty.  She  had  left  her  responsibilities  behind 
her  ;  there  was  nobody  m  authority  over  her  with  the 
right  of  educating  or  admonishing  her,  nobody  to 
object  to,  or  approve  of,  anything  she  chose  to  do 
or  say  or  think.  In  her  sore,  rebellious  mood  Anne 
felt  that  approbation  was  as  infuriating  and  as 
hampering  as  criticism.  She  didn't  care  whether  the 
whole  world  was  pleased  with  her  or  not :  in  fact 
she  devoutly  hoped  that  the  presiding  deity  of  her 
whole  world,  Gilbert,  would  be  profoundly  dis- 
pleased. 

Marian  noticed  that  the  wan  misery  on  Anne's 
face  was  dispelled  by  the  bustle  and  stir  of  their 
arrival  at  Calais,  and  by  their  journey  through 
France.  On  her  previous  visits  to  Paris  she  had 
travelled  conventionally  with  Gilbert.  They  had 
stayed  at  an  ordinary  hotel,  and  spent  money  in 
all  the  usual  ways,  seen  Paris  from  the  tower  of 
superior  aloofness  of  the  upper  class  English  tourist. 


218  ANNE 

Marian's  flat  and  mode  of  life  provided  a  totally 
new  experience  :  Paris  was  a  different  world.  It 
was  the  difference  between  watching  a  play  from 
the  auditorium  and  being  on  the  stage  taking  part 
in  the  pageant.  Marian  was  amused  and  astonished 
by  Anne's  adaptability.  She  had  been  too  good- 
natured  to  harbour  misgivings  when  Anne  had 
joined  her,  but  she  had  the  professional's  distrust 
of  the  amateur  worker,  and  a  dread  that  Anne, 
with  her  daintiness,  her  fastidious  ways,  her  spoilt 
child  graces  might  be  as  out  of  place  in  her  hugger- 
mugger  existence  as  a  humming-bird  from  an  aviary 
among  the  sparrows  on  the  house-tops.  However, 
she  recognised  she  was  wrong.  Anne  adapted  her- 
self with  a  resilience  and  a  whole-hearted  enjoyment 
of  new  ways,  strange  food,  and  a  fresh  outlook,  that 
marked  her  out  as  one  of  those  joyous  pilgrims  on 
life's  road  who  are  good  company  in  all  weathers, 
who  have  the  great  gift  of  high  courage  and  a  light 
heart.  It  amused  Anne  to  live  on  scanty  meals  in 
cheap  restaurants  and  work  hard  among  people  who 
took  art  seriously  and  life  flippantly.  The  gaiety, 
the  irresponsibility,  the  hard  work  suited  her. 

To  Marian's  surprise  some  weeks  passed  and 
Gilbert  Trevor  made  no  sign  of  pursuing  his  errant 
wife.  The  simple  explanation  was  that,  though 
Anne  had  informed  Francesca  that  she  was  going 
to  Paris  with  Marian  Wyndham,  she  had  not  stated 
her  purpose  of  remaining  there  for  months,  and  her 
family  expected  her  return  daily.  Gilbert  waited 
for  three  weeks,  then  he  telegraphed  to  enquire  when 
she  was  coming  home.  Anne  read  the  telegram, 
raised  her  eyebrows,  smiled  enigmatically,  and  tore 
it  up.  As  she  didn't  answer  it  Gilbert  wired  again, 


ANNE  219 

peremptorily  requesting  her  to  return  at  once.  And 
when  this  failed  to  elicit  an  answer  he  packed  a  bag 
and  crossed  over  to  Paris  in  a  very  bad  temper. 

Marian's  flat  was  on  the  fifth  floor  of  a  narrow 
house  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  On  the  morning  he 
arrived  he  found  nobody  there.  An  untidy  pale- 
faced  Russian  woman  whom  he  met  on  the  stairs 
informed  him  that  the  English  women  were  out  and 
would  perhaps  not  be  home  until  late  that  evening. 
Gilbert  spent  an  unenjoyable  day  and  returned  at 
nine  o'clock.  The  flat  was  still  empty.  He  sat 
down  on  the  stairs,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  grimly  prepared 
to  wait  until  Anne  did  choose  to  return.  While  he 
waited  he  considered  what  he  was  going  to  say  to 
her — the  English  language  seemed  an  inadequate 
vehicle  for  his  exasperation.  He  waited  two  hours, 
and  by  eleven  o'clock  he  was  so  tired  of  waiting  that 
he  was  almost  prepared  to  forgive  her,  provided  she 
came  at  once.  At  last  he  heard  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  and  when  they  drew  near  he  struck  a  match, 
for  the  stairs  were  dark,  and  said  :  "  Anne  ?  " 

But  it  was  Marian,  alone.    She  stared  at  him. 

**  Where's  my  wife  ?  "   he  asked. 

"  Oh  !  It's  you,  is  it  ?  "  said  Marian  calmly. 
"  Come  in,  won't  you  ?  " 

She  opened  her  door,  lit  a  candle  first  and  then  a 
cigarette. 

"  Where's  Anne  ?  "   he  asked. 

"  She's  all  right.  Thoroughly  enjoying  herself 
dancing.  I  couldn't  get  her  away.  Someone  will 
bring  her  back  when  she's  had  enough  of  it." 

"  Dancing  ?     Where  ?  " 

"  At  an  American's  studio.  It  is  his  birthday. 
There  are  about  forty  of  them  there  of  fourteen 


220  ANNE 

nationalities.  They've  got  a  mad  Hungarian  violinist 
playing  for  them.  They  are  all  quite  young,  very 
wild,  rather  silly,  and  perfectly  harmless.  But 
they're  having  the  time  of  their  lives  and  Anne  is  the 
life  of  the  party.  She  really  dances  divinely." 

"  I've  come  to  fetch  her  home." 

Marian  blew  smoke  rings  with  half-shut  eyes. 

"  Of  course  it  isn't  my  business  to  advise  you," 
she  said.  "  But  if  I  were  you  I'd  let  her  stay  here 
with  me  as  long  as  she  wants  to." 

"  Perhaps  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me," 
replied  Gilbert  stiffly,  "  how  long  that's  likely  to 
be?" 

"  She's  very  keen  on  painting,"  said  Marian, 
feeling  her  way  cautiously,  "  and  she  really  has 
talent." 

"  She  also  has  a  husband,  a  child,  and  a  home." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  married,  thank  God,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  probably  more  suitable  for  me  not  to  interfere. 
Have  you  been  waiting  long  ?  " 

"  About  two  hours." 

"  We'll  have  something  to  eat.  I  don't  know 
how  late  that  child  will  be." 

She  lit  an  oil  stove,  and  by  the  light  of  the  one 
candle  she  found  eggs  and  other  accessories  in  obscure 
recesses  of  the  room,  and  proceeded  to  make  an 
omelette  and  some  coffee.  Gilbert  was  mollified  by 
the  fact  that  she  was  a  good  cook ;  he  was  hungry 
and  grateful  for  the  food.  His  embryonic  confidence 
in  Marian  developed  muscle  and  vitality  and  began 
to  move.  He  offered  her  one  of  his  cigarettes,  and 
asked  bluntly  : 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Anne  ?  " 

"  You're  going  to  see  her.    She  may  tell  you.     On 


ANNE  221 

the  other  hand  she  may  not.  I've  not  cross-questioned 
her  myself.  Speaking  as  an  observer  I  should  say 
you'd  offended  her,  to  put  it  mildly.  Anyway  I 
warn  you  she  has  set  her  heart  on  spending  some 
months  here." 

"  That  is  ridiculous  of  course." 

"  Well — is  it  ?  She  is  working  hard,  it  may  be 
the  best  thing  for  her.  Anne  is  one  of  those  people 
who  can  concentrate :  you  can  only  concentrate 
upon  one  thing  at  a  time.  At  present  it's  her  work. 
That  will  help  her  to  get  over — whatever  there  is  for 
her  to  get  over.  Otherwise  I  fancy  she'd  be  having 
a  bad  time." 

Gilbert  frowned  nervously  and  uncomfortably. 

"  She'll  come  to  no  harm,"  said  Marian.  "  She 
is  a  little  young  mad  thing,  but  she  has  the  most 
pellucid  temperament." 

A  neighbouring  church  struck  twelve.  He  fidgeted 
irritably.  It  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  totally 
unsuitable  for  a  British  husband  to  be  spending 
midnight  in  a  strange  studio  in  Paris  discussing  his 
most  intimate  domestic  affairs  with  a  disconcertingly 
candid  young  woman  he  hardly  knew,  while  his  wife 
chose  to  pass  the  night  dancing  with  people  to  whom 
he  had  not  been  introduced. 

A  door  downstairs  banged.     Marian  listened. 

"  There  she  is.  Not  late  you  see.  We  keep  early 
hours  in  the  morning  here  to  make  the  most  of  the 
light." 

Anne  came  in  with  flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling 
eyes.  She  adored  dancing,  and  had  spent  a  very 
gay  and  amusing  evening.  At  Marian'-s  greeting, 
"  Here  is  your  husband ! "  and  at  the  sight  of 
Gilbert,  the  excitement  vanished.  Her  moutt  set 


222  ANNE 

into  a  queer  little  expression  of  hardness  and  con- 
tempt, and  her  eyes  looked  bright  with  an  emotion 
that  was  not  joy. 

"  I'm  going  to  bed,"  said  Marian  abruptly.  "  Good 
night,  you  two." 

She  left  them  alone,  and  Anne  remained  silent, 
erect  and  motionless. 

"  Now  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  nonsense  ?  " 
said  Gilbert. 

Anne  didn't  answer. 

"  Don't  be  a  little  fool,  Anne  !  When  are  you 
coming  back  ?  " 

"  Never  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  He  kept  his  voice  calm  : 
if  they  were  going  to  quarrel  he  didn't  wish  Marian, 
in  the  next  room,  to  overhear  every  word. 

"  I  mean  that  I  shall  come  back  to  Phil  presently, 
when  I've  done  what  I  want  to  do.  I  shall  never 
come  back  to  you." 

"  Why  not  ?  Look  here,  Anne,  this  won't  do. 
If  you've  got  a  lot  of  exaggerated  ideas  in  your  head 
about  anything  .  .  .  let's  have  it  out.  ...  I  can 
explain  ..." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  explain  anything,  thank 
you.  I  don't  care  a  bit." 

"It  is  no  use  me  staying  here  arguing  with  you  in 
this  mood  !  " 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  coat.  "  When  you've 
made  up  your  mind  to  be  reasonable  you  can  let  me 
know." 

"  I  can  let  you  know  now.  I'm  going  to  stay  here 
for  a  month  or  two  until  I  can  make  money  by  my 
painting.  ..." 

"  You're  talking  like   a   child.     What   am  I   to 


ANNE  228 

say  to  people  if  you  stay  away  for  a  month  or 
two  ?  " 

"  Exactly  what  you  like." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  to  make  money  for  ? 
Money  is  my  affair.  Francesca  will  lend  me  enough 
to  tide  over  emergencies." 

"  I  want  to  be  able  to  support  myself  and  Phil 
if  I  ever  decide  to  leave  you  and  take  him  away." 

"  Don't  talk  like  a  heroine  in  a  third-rate  problem 
play.  Anyone  would  think  I'd  been  a  brute  to  you." 

It  was  Anne's  impulse  to  say,  "  You've  been  very 
cruel ! "  but  the  words  would  not  come.  The 
strain  of  the  quarrel  was  telling  on  her,  she  was 
tired,  the  tears  were  very  near.  She  was  having  the 
opportunity  she  had  wished  for,  the  opportunity  of 
retaliating  upon  Gilbert  and  punishing  him :  but  to 
her  incredulous  bewilderment  it  was  giving  her  very 
little  satisfaction :  instead,  she  seemed  to  be  hurting 
herself  more  than  she  was  hurting  him.  She  was 
afraid  if  she  uttered  the  words  that  were  uppermost 
in  her  mind  they  would  sound  like  a  reproach,  or  an 
appeal  for  pity  ;  they  would  betray  that  she  was 
wounded,  and  her  pride  would  not  admit  that  to  him. 
She  had  to  choose  between  a  silence  with  tightened 
lips  and  words  borne  on  a  flood  of  tears.  If  she  had 
spoken,  and  cried,  Gilbert  would  have  had  the  excuse 
he  was  yearning  for,  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  try 
to  force  a  reconciliation  upon  her.  She  might  have 
yielded  if  he  had.  But  she  made  no  sign,  gave  him 
no  opening. 

He  walked  to  the  door. 

"  When  you've  come  to  your  senses,  let  me  know," 
he  said  coldly.  "I  go  back  to-morrow.  If  you 
choose  to  behave  like  a  rational  being  and  return  with 


224  ANNE 

me  .  .  .  ?  "  He  looked  at  her  hesitatingly  :  but  she 
shook  her  head.  Then  he  went  away. 

Marian  heard  him  go,  and  she  lay  awake  in  the 
dark,  listening  intently  to  Anne's  movements.  She 
heard  Anne  throw  herself  on  her  bed,  for  it  was  a 
cheap,  rickety  little  camp-bed  and  creaked  betray- 
ingly  ;  then  she  heard  the  muffled  sound  of  half- 
suffocated  sobs. 

"  Poor  kid  !  "  she  said  to  herself.  She  debated 
within  herself  whether  she  should  go  to  Anne  and 
try  to  comfort  her  ;  but  decided  that  it  would  be 
kinder  to  leave  her  alone.  "  She'd  hate  it,  and  she's 
got  to  go  through  with  it.  It  will  help  her  more 
if  she  thinks  I  believe  she  doesn't  care  :  she  wants 
to  pretend  she  doesn't,  and  it  will  help  her  if  she 
thinks  she's  convinced  me." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE  story  that  Anne  was  run  down  after  a  hot 
summer  and  the  worry  of  Phil's  illness,  and  of,  under 
doctor's  orders,  having  a  holiday  in  France  travelling 
with  an  old  friend,  was  plausible  enough  for  general 
purposes.  Francesca  accepted  it  for  three  weeks  ; 
but  when  Gilbert  returned  from  Paris  without  Anne 
her  scepticism  grew  up  to  the  clouds  in  a  night  like 
the  beanstalk  in  the  fairy  tale  ;  and,  like  the  hero 
of  that  allegory,  she  followed  it  up  to  investigate 
the  fearful  giants  of  doubt  it  logically  led  to. 

"  When  is  Anne  really  coming  back  ?  "  she  en- 
quired one  evening  after  dinner.  She  was  staying 
with  her  brother  in  London,  thoroughly  enjoying  her 
vicarious  maternal  responsibilities. 

"  Write  and  ask  her,"  he  suggested.  "  She  hasn't 
told  me." 

Francesca  pondered  over  this  reply. 

**  Gilbert — there's  nothing  the  matter,  is  there  ?  " 

"  I  told  you.  I  saw  her,  and  she's  looking  much 
better." 

"  What  is  keeping  her  away  then  ?  " 

"  Her  own  sweet  will." 

"  Have  you  two  quarrelled  ?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 
He  was  disconcerted. 

"  She's  a  bad-tempered  little  devil,"  he  declared. 

"  She's  only  a  child,  Gilbert." 

Q  2*$ 


226  ANNE 

"  She's  a  very  silly  child." 

"  But,  Gilbert,  if  she  is  still  a  spoilt  child,  re- 
member you've  spoilt  her.  It  isn't  fair  to  expect  her 
to  change  and  be  a  reasonable  woman  of  the  world  in 
ten  minutes  merely  because  it  would  be  more  con- 
venient if  she  were." 

"  The  only  thing  to  do  when  Anne  sulks  is  to  leave 
her  alone  till  she  leaves  off."  He  waited  a  minute, 
and  added,  "  It  will  be  all  right  in  time." 

He  really  believed  it  would  be,  more  or  less.  He 
was  not  sure  about  Anne.  He  thought  her  jealousy 
had  been  firing  at  random  in  the  dark.  He  told  him- 
self she  was  a  tiresome  little  spitfire,  and  that  if  she 
chose  to  create  an  impossible  situation  for  him  he 
had  a  legitimate  grievance. 

Francesca  thought  he  was  too  casual.  She  was 
worried.  She  wrote  to  Anne  carefully  and  tactfully. 
Anne,  after  ten  days,  replied  with  a  brevity  and  an 
irrelevance  that  might  have  sprung  either  from  con- 
summate tact  or  imperturbable  indifference.  Fran- 
cesca became  seriously  troubled,  and  decided  to  con- 
fide in  John  Halliday  :  he  might  be  able  to  enlighten 
her  on  the  subject  of  Anne's  vagaries  ;  he  might  even 
be  able  to  influence  the  child.  She  invited  him  to 
dinner  at  her  Club,  and  afterwards,  when  they  were 
smoking  cigarettes  in  the  lounge,  she  asked  him  if 
he  knew  what  was  the  matter  with  Anne. 

"  No  !  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  He  immediately 
took  alarm,  and,  like  a  faithful  watch-dog,  he  showed 
it  by  becoming  angry. 

"  I'm  afraid  all  isn't  well.  She  and  Gilbert  have 
apparently  had  some  disagreement,  and  Anne  is  in 
Paris  and  refuses  to  come  home.  Do  you  think  you 
could  persuade  her  that  it  is  foolish  of  her  to 


ANNE  227 

stay  away  any  longer  ?  She  really  ought  to  come 
back." 

John  turned  very  red,  and  sat  up  straight  in  the 
deep  arm-chair. 

"  If  he's  making  her  unhappy  upon  my  soul  I'll 
kill  him  !  "  he  exclaimed  with  a  vehemence  that 
startled  Francesca.  "  I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Waring.  I 
forgot  he's  your  brother.  Of  course  you'd  take  his 
part,  but  you  see  Anne's  happiness  is  all  the  world 
to  me.  I  care  about  that  more  than  about  anything 
else.  I  see  red  when  I  think  of  anyone  making  her 
miserable." 

"  But,"  Francesca  went  on,  "  it  may  be  Anne's 
fault.  She  isn't  always  reasonable.  If  she  could  be 
persuaded  to  come  home.  ..." 

"  I  don't  care  if  it  is  Anne's  fault,"  replied  John. 
"  And  I  don't  believe  it  is.  If  a  man  isn't  going  to 
make  a  girl  happy,  he's  no  business  to  marry  her. 
I  should  always  take  Anne's  part :  if  she  threw 
lighted  lamps  at  Gilbert's  head  it  would  be  his  fault 
for  making  her  do  it." 

Francesca  sighed  impatiently  ;  by  this  time  she 
was  regretting  that  she  had  taken  John  into  her  con- 
fidence. She  tried  to  mend  matters.  She  was  afraid 
she  had  given  John  a  wrong  impression,  she  said ; 
he  mustn't  exaggerate  her  meaning.  John  hardly 
listened. 

He  brooded  over  the  matter  at  leisure.  If  Anne 
was  going  to  be  one  of  those  poor  women  who  were 
ill-treated  or  deserted  by  their  husbands  it  would  be 
more  than  he  could  bear.  Life  wasn't  a  very  gay 
business  for  him,  and  never  had  been,  but  at  least 
all  had  gone  well  for  Anne.  She  had  been  happy, 
and  if  he  could  ensure  her  happiness  by  such  drastic 


228  ANNE 

measures  as  shooting  anyone  whose  conduct  or 
existence  threatened  it,  he  should  consider  it,  if  not 
exactly  a  pleasure  or  a  duty,  at  least  a  laudible 
activity. 

He  was  sorry  for  all  women  :  men  made  the  world 
such  a  difficult  and  unhappy  place  for  them.  John 
tried  to  atone  for  the  inherent  cruelty  of  his  sex  by 
allotting  an  extra  share  of  kindness  to  the  only 
women  with  whom  he  was  thrown  in  daily  contact, 
his  landlady,  who  was  an  elderly  sufferer  from 
chronic  asthma,  and  Molly  Campbell,  whose  father 
bullied  her.  It  relieved  his  chivalrous  feelings  to  be 
especially  gentle  and  courteous  to  them,  ,as  he 
couldn't  reach  Anne,  who  was  in  Paris,  and  only 
answered  his  letters  with  an  occasional  picture 
postcard. 

Old  Mrs.  Threadwell  was  difficult  to  please,  be- 
cause she  was  so  deaf  and  so  short-sighted  that  she 
neither  heard  what  he  said,  nor  saw  whether  he  was 
smiling  or  scowling  at  her,  and  so  long  as  he  paid  his 
rent  she  didn't  mind  ;  besides,  if  she  did  happen  to 
see  an  expression  on  his  face  she  didn't  understand, 
or  hear  a  remark  that  called  for  an  answer,  the  effort 
of  making  an  adequate  response  brought  on  her 
asthma.  Molly  Campbell  was  neither  deaf,  nor  blind, 
nor  asthmatic. 

A  London  girl  of  her  class  would  have  dropped 
her  aitches  or  spoken  with  a  Cockney  accent.  Molly, 
being  Scots,  had  a  soft-toned  voice,  dropped  other 
consonants,  but  never  an  aitch,  and  John  found  her 
pronounced  "  rs  "  and  prolonged  open  vowels  both 
pretty  and  refined.  He  was  quite  unaware  that  he 
was  the  cause  of  some  of  the  reprimands  she  endured 
from  her  irascible  parent. 


ANNE  229 

One  morning  he  found  her  waiting  for  him  with 
red  eyes. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked  kindly. 

"  Nothing." 

"  Oh  nonsense  !  You're  crying  all  over  the  type- 
writer !  " 

"  It's  my  father,"  she  said,  choking  back  a  sob. 

"  He's  gone  into  the  City  and  won't  be  back  till 
this  afternoon.  If  he's  in  a  bad  temper  he's  time  to 
change  into  a  good  one  by  then.  What's  he  been 
scolding  you  for  ?  " 

He  expected  to  be  told  of  some  trivial  occurrence 
at  the  office  that  a  few  words  of  praise  would  put 
right ;  but,  somewhat  to  his  embarrassment,  Molly 
took  him  into  her  confidence. 

"  My  fairther  is  Established,  and  my  mother  that's 
dead  was  Episcopalian,"  she  began.  John  stared  at 
her  blankly. 

"  What's  the  difference  ?  " 

"  It  is  just  two  Churches  we  have  in  Scotland," 
explained  the  girl  timidly. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  John,  who  had  never  been  to 
Scotland  and  didn't  see  at  all. 

"  My  fairther  don't  hold  with  Episcopalians,  but 
he  was  a  just  man,  and  while  my  mother  lived  he 
agreed  that  we  children  should  go  to  the  kirk  with 
him  on  the  Sunday  morning  and  to  the  church  with 
my  mother  in  the  evening." 

"  That  seemed  a  fair  arrangement — for  them," 
said  John  judicially,  beginning  to  be  interested  in 
the  theological  education  of  the  Campbell  offspring. 

"  When  she  died  last  year  and  we  came  to  London, 
I  kept  it  up.  Mother  said  not  to  anger  my  fairther, 
but  he  never  minded  till  lately.  I  found  a  bonny 


230  ANNE 

church  to  go  to  every  Sunday.  I  didn't  know  but 
that  it  was  Episcopalian,  but  it  seems  it  is  not  that. 
It's  a  Catholic  church,  Roman  Catholic,  and  my 
fairther  is  terrible  angry,  says  he'll  me  turn  out  of 
the  house  and  out  of  the  works  if  I  go  there  again." 

"  Then  don't  go,"  said  John,  comfortably. 

"  But  I  prefairr  it,"  said  Molly  in  her  slow  Scottish 
voice. 

John  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  her. 
The  girl  in  her  sedate  challenge  seemed  to  epitomise 
the  spirit  of  the  Scottish  Covenanters,  to  sum  up  the 
whole  creed  of  the  divine  rights  of  private  judgment. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done  about  that,"  he 
said  soberly.  "  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  nineteen." 

"  Then  I  think  you're  too  young  to  disobey  your 
father.  You'd  better  give  in  till  you're  older." 

"  Nineteen' s  not  that  young,"  she  said  with  firm- 
ness. 

"  Why  not  talk  to  a  clergyman  ?  "  he  suggested. 
"  Get  professional  advice  ?  " 

Molly  pondered  deliberately. 

"  I  shall  do  that,"  she  said  with  the  pleased  smile  of 
one  fortified  with  sage  counsel.  "  Will  I  be  getting 
on  with  your  letters  now  ?  " 

John  had  a  rush  of  work  just  then.  William 
Dalliac  was  in  Scotland  with  his  family  ;  he  trusted 
John,  and  left  a  good  deal  of  responsibility  to  him, 
and  had  raised  his  salary. 

He  couldn't  desert  his  post  to  rush  over  to  Paris 
to  Anne,  which  was  what  he  longed  to  do.  Several 
evenings  he  only  reached  the  printing  works  at  six 
o'clock,  and  kept  Molly  Campbell  for  two  or  three 
hours  over  the  day's  correspondence.  Molly  didn't 


ANNE  231 

mind.  Her  evenings  at  home  under  her  father's  eye 
were  dull,  and  the  only  happy  interest  in  her  life 
was  her  work  for  John.  She  began  to  look  forward 
to  the  days  when  there  was  a  heavy  post  that  would 
keep  her  longer  in  his  presence.  His  gentleness,  his 
consideration  for  her,  raised  her  to  some  heaven  of 
delight,  of  whose  existence  she  had  hitherto  never 
dreamed.  It  was  a  perfectly  innocent  delight  and  a 
strange  heaven  ;  there  was  a  typewriter  in  it  and  a 
good  deal  of  waste  paper,  and  it  was  inhabited  by 
a  kind-hearted,  untidy,  absent-minded  young  man 
and  his  tired,  elated  secretary,  who  asked  nothing 
more  than  the  infinite  perpetuation  of  their  work 
together.  John  was  so  absorbed  in  the  thought  of 
Anne  alone  in  Paris,  so  occupied  in  wondering  what 
he  could  do  to  ensure  that,  whoever  suffered  from  the 
vagaries  of  fortune  and  other  peoples'  behaviour, 
it  should  not  be  Anne,  that  he  was  oblivious  of  the 
fact  that  Molly  was  engaged  in  the  feminine  pursuit 
of  putting  him  upon  a  pedestal  and  burning  incense 
before  him.  He  did  remember  once  to  ask  her  how 
she  was  getting  on  with  her  father,  and  the  simplicity 
of  her  answer  baffled  him. 

"  Not  so  well  as  might  be.  I  did  what  you  recom- 
mended, Mr.  Halliday.  I  went  to  the  priest,  and  he 
was  a  kindly  old  body,  but  he  advised  me  to  wait 
awhile  and  to  pray  haird  for  the  convairrsion  of  my 
fairther ;  but  my  fairther  will  be  no  that  easy  to 
convairrt.  He  says  he'll  break  every  bone  in  my 
body  if  I  dare  have  the  inferrnal  impertinence  to 
pray  for  him,  and  then  he  says  he'll  skin  the  priest." 

John  looked  harassed.  When  he  had  advised  the 
girl  to  take  professional  clerical  advice  he  had 
imagined  she  would  go  to  the  family  minister  of 


232  ANNE 

whatever  denomination  it  was  that  her  father 
patronised  ;  instead,  she  had  chosen  her  own  brand 
of  adviser,  and  the  matter  had  apparently  taken  a 
step  in  a  stormy  direction.  Campbell's  brutality  of 
speech,  as  reported  so  demurely  by  his  calm  daughter, 
disgusted  him  ;  that  wasn't  the  way  to  argue  with 
nice  children  of  nineteen.  The  man  was  a  bully  ; 
John  detested  bullies. 

"  The  priest  seems  to  be  a  wise  man,"  he  said 
aloud.  "  Do  what  he  says,  wait  a  while.  Your 
father  can't  censor  your  private  prayers  you  know." 

Molly  hesitated. 

"  I  was  thinking  that  maybe  you  would  say  a 
word  to  my  fairther." 

"  I'm  afraid  he'd  think  it  was  hardly  my  business. 
I  might  make  things  worse." 

"  It  could  not  do  that,"  said  the  girl  slowly.  "  He's 
that  rough  and  hard  when  the  drink  is  in  him.  And 
it  isn't  only  the  church  I  go  to  that's  wrong.  Last 
night  he  said  that  if  I  stayed  in  the  office  after  hours 
he'd  thrash  me." 

"  Oh  I  say,  I  can't  have  that  you  know  !  "  ex- 
claimed John.  "  I  keep  you  to  get  through  the 
letters.  Of  course  you  must  be  paid  overtime,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  don't  want  overtime  pay,"  said  Molly, 
flushing. 

"Well,  I'll  have  it  out  with  him,"  said  John 
haughtily.  "  And  that  now." 

He  left  Molly  in  his  office,  and  went  in  search  of 
the  manager.  He  found  him  in  the  compositors' 
room,  and  beckoned  him  aside. 

"  Look  here,  Campbell,"  he  said  in  an  undertone 
that  could  not  be  heard  by  the  men  at  the  other 


ANNE  233 

end  of  the  long  room.  **  What's  all  this  nonsense 
about  you  refusing  to  let  your  daughter  work  over- 
time ?  The  work  has  got  to  be  done.  You  were 
anxious  enough  for  the  girl  to  get  the  job,  and  she's 
a  good  girl  and  does  it  very  well.  I'm  perfectly 
satisfied  with  her.  But  understand,  if  she  stays  on  a 
bit  late  occasionally  it  is  my  doing,  not  hers.  I  keep 
her,  and  I  won't  have  her  bullied.  I'm  as  considerate 
to  her  as  I  can  be,  but  work  is  work,  as  you  know 
perfectly  well." 

Campbell  flushed  angrily. 

"  So  my  girl's  a  good  girl  is  she  ?  "  he  growled. 

"  Certainly  she  is — a  very  good  girl." 

"  And  it's  your  doing  if  she  stays  late,  is  it  ?  " 

The  man's  voice  was  thick  and  stupid  and  threaten- 
ing. John  looked  at  him  keenly.  He  had  been 
drinking. 

"  This  won't  do,  Campbell,"  he  said  authoritatively. 
"  You  must  come  to  the  works  sober,  or  I  shall  speak 
to  Mr.  Dalliac  ;  and  then  you'll  get  sacked."  He 
turned  on  his  heel  and  went  back  to  his  own  office. 
As  he  ran  down  the  stone  steps  he  heard  Campbell's 
voice  raised  in  anger. 

"  Have  me  sacked  will  he  ?  If  I  don't  let  my  girl 
work  overtime  ?  Get  me  the  sack.  .  .  ." 

John  hoped  the  man  was  not  too  drunk  to  under- 
stand the  threat ;  if  he  were,  he  supposed  he  would 
have  to  speak  to  him  again  when  he  was  sober. 

"  I've  spoken  to  your  father,"  he  said  cheerfully 
to  Molly,  "  and  there's  nothing  to  detain  you  after 
hours  this  evening." 

Molly  disconsolately  wished  there  had  been.  To 
her  prayers  for  her  father's  conversion  that  evening 
she  added  the  petition  that  the  next  day  would  bring 


234  ANNE 

a  heavy  post  to  the  works,  one  that  would  keep  her 
there  late.  It  did. 

There  was  a  very  heavy  post  the  next  day,  and 
John  sorted  the  letters  into  those  that  had  to  be 
answered  immediately  and  those  that  could  be  left 
over  until  the  following  day.  When  he  had  dictated 
the  last  urgent  missive  he  ran  upstairs  to  speak  to 
the  foreman.  There  was  a  London  bye-election,  and 
several  of  the  printers  were  working  overtime  on  one 
of  the  candidate's  addresses  to  his  constituents. 
The  author  of  it  was  apparently  endowed  with  a 
lurid  taste  in  invective.  John  had  the  galley-proof 
in  his  hand ;  it  had  just  been  brought  down  to  him 
by  an  ink-stained,  oil-stained  boy. 

"  I  say,  Marsh,  we  must  stop  this.  It  is  a  scurrilous 
production,  there'll  be  trouble  if  we  print  it.  Hold 
up  the  job  till  I  telephone  through  about  it.  Where's 
Campbell  ?  " 

"  Downstairs,  sir.    In  his  office." 

John  turned  away  and  ran  down. 

The  manager's  office  was  on  the  half -landing  at 
the  foot  of  the  first  flight  of  stone  stairs.  The  door 
was  wide  open,  and  Molly  was  with  her  father.  He 
could  hear  their  voices,  Campbell's  loud  and  hector- 
ing, Molly's  soft  and  scared  :  then  he  heard  the  sound 
of  a  blow,  and  a  cry  of  pain  from  the  girl.  John  took 
the  last  steps  in  a  bound,  and  saw  Molly  reel  back 
against  the  wall  with  the  marks  of  her  father's  heavy 
fingers  reddening  her  pale  cheek.  Sobbing  and 
frightened,  she  turned  to  rush  out  of  the  office,  but 
in  the  doorway  her  father  seized  her  wrist  and  raised 
his  hand  to  box  her  ears  again.  But  John  was  in 
time  to  catch  Campbell  by  the  arm. 

"  Stop  that,  you  drunken  brute  !  "  he  exclaimed. 


ANNE  235 

"  Get  out  of  the  way,"  he  said  to  Molly,  who,  only  too 
glad  to  obey  him,  fled  downstairs. 

Campbell  had  been  drinking  heavily,  and  hit  out 
blindly.  John  left  go  of  his  arm,  stepped  back,  and 
struck  him.  The  blow  was  a  savage  one,  John  meant 
to  punish  him  severely ;  he  put  into  it  not  only  all 
his  physical  strength,  but  the  whole  force  of  the  pent- 
up  anger  and  indignation  that  had  been  brewing  in 
his  heart :  he  struck  not  only  in  defence  of  Molly 
but  a  metaphorical  blow  on  Anne's  behalf ;  he  had  a 
legitimate  chance  of  doing  what  he  had  wanted  to  do 
for  some  time — hit  somebody  really  hard.  Men  who 
were  brutal  to  women  deserved  no  mercy.  He  would 
have  struck  him  again,  but  Campbell  saved  him  the 
trouble  by  falling  heavily  backwards  against  the  wall 
and  sideways  down  the  stone  stairs.  And  then  he  lay 
still.  The  boy,  drawn  to  the  fight  by  the  force  that 
attracts  boys  to  scenes  of  violence  and  accidents  as 
surely  and  mysteriously  as  steel  filings  are  attracted 
to  a  magnet,  appeared  on  the  stairs,  and  squealed 
shrilly  in  joyful  excitement : 

"  Mr.  Halliday's  foighting  the  guv'ndr." 

John  turned  round  sharply.  He  felt  it  was  more 
important  to  cuff  the  boy  than  to  pick  up  the  manager. 
The  men  ran  down  to  the  recumbent  figure  and 
straightened  it  out  of  the  crumpled  heap. 

"  Fetch  some  water,"  said  John  to  the  boy  instead 
of  cuffing  him.  The  foreman  said,  "  Better  try 
whiskey,  sir,"  in  a  confidential  undertone. 

They  tried  both,  unavailingly.  A  queer  silence 
settled  down  on  the  badly  lit  staircase.  They  could 
hear  Molly's  typewriter  industriously  clicking  away 
in  the  distance  downstairs.  Marsh,  the  foreman, 
straightened  himself  and  scratche  1  his  head. 


236  ANNE 

"  Better  send  for  the  doctor,  sir.  He  seems  a  bit 
stunned  like." 

"  Where's  the  nearest  ?  "  said  John  impatiently, 
still  half  annoyed  that  the  man  had  crumpled  up 
before  he  had  been  sufficiently  punished — he'd  only 
been  hit  once. 

"  The  Temperance  'Orspital,"  one  of  the  printers 
suggested. 

"  No,  Dr.  Jessop  will  be  in  his  Infirmary  up  the 
road  yet,"  said  another. 

The  boy  was  sent  off,  ordered  to  look  sharp  ;  he 
ran  with  heels  winged  with  importance.  The  tele- 
phone bell  rang.  It  was  the  Radical  agent  making 
enquiries  about  the  election  literature.  John  spoke 
to  him,  argued  with  him,  refused  to  proceed  with  the 
printing  unless  one  paragraph  was  deleted  and 
another  altered.  When  he  had  carried  his  point  he 
went  back  to  the  group  of  men  on  the  stairs.  The 
doctor  had  arrived,  and  was  on  his  knees  on  the 
landing  as  John  went  up  the  stairs.  He  stood  up, 
and  peered  at  John  over  his  spectacles. 

"  Nothing  to  be  done,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said.  "  The 
man's  neck  is  broken." 

"  Do  you  mean— that— that  I've  killed  him  ?  " 
John  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  who's  killed  him," 
said  the  doctor.  "  But  the  man  is  dead." 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

A  CATASTROPHE  that  comes  suddenly  upon  unpre- 
pared minds  is  difficult  to  recognise.  Tragedy  needs 
preparation.  No  human  dramatist  would  let  loose 
terror  and  lamentation  upon  the  stage  without  an 
adequate  warning,  without  giving  the  muse  time  to 
change  her  mask  of  comedy.  But  life  is  artless, 
and  its  dramatic  methods  more  merciful ;  the  horror 
of  anticipation  is  used  sparingly,  the  secrets  of  the 
future  are  kept  inviolate  in  the  guardianship  of 
hope.  John,  aghast  as  he  was  at  the  accident,  grasped 
the  situation  slowly.  His  first  emotion  was  one  of 
vivid  anger  at  the  stupidity  of  the  occurrence.  There 
had  been  a  horrible,  ridiculous,  inexcusably  careless 
mistake — not  on  his  part,  but  on  Duncan  Campbell's, 
or  on  something  else's.  He,  John  Halliday,  wasn't 
responsible  for  the  appallingly  mad  result  of  a  per- 
fectly sane  and  sensible  action.  In  nightmares, 
houses  fell  down  when  you  knocked  at  the  front  door, 
ships  foundered  in  smooth  seas,  and  trains  ran  off 
the  rails  and  chased  their  frightened  passengers  over 
open  country  ;  but  in  real  life  such  things  couldn't 
be :  and  in  real  life  when  one  punched  a  fellow-man's 
head  and  knocked  him  down  he  got  up  eventually, 
and  either  shook  hands  or  hit  back.  But  Duncan 
Campbell  always  was  a  surly  ruffian,  John  reflected 
bitterly. 

2.17 


238  ANNE 

At  first  he  was  more  concerned  with  the  logical 
sequence  of  the  immediate  results  of  the  death  than 
with  his  own  misfortune.  Molly  had  to  be  considered. 
Dr.  Jessop  took  charge  of  her,  took  her  home.  There 
was  the  work  in  hand  upstairs  on  the  machines  to  be 
got  through.  Marsh  was  to  be  trusted,  his  competence 
and  common  sense  emerged  ;  he  rose  to  the  respon- 
sibility. There  was  a  coroner's  inquest  to  be  arranged. 
John  was  worried  about  that  in  a  dazed  way ;  he 
knew  nothing  about  such  things.  But  the  police 
took  that  matter  in  hand,  and  then  John  realised 
that  he  was  involved  in  a  serious  tangle  with  the 
machinery  of  the  law. 

He  sent  a  long  telegram  to  William  Dalliac,  and  a 
shorter  one  to  an  old  friend  of  his,  an  impecunious 
solicitor.  He  thought  he  might  as  well  do  Edward 
Low  a  good  turn  by  putting  work  in  his  way,  as  he 
was  advised  that  he  should  be  represented  at  the 
inquest. 

Edward  Low,  a  phlegmatic,  kind-hearted  young 
man,  found  his  client  filled  with  remorse  rather  than 
with  apprehension. 

"  It's  an  awful  accident  to  have  happened,"  he 
complained  after  he  had  recounted  the  circumstances. 
"  What  worries  me  so  is  that,  in  a  way,  it  wasn't 
entirely  an  accident  either,  because  I  meant  to  hit 
him,  and  to  hit  him  hard  too." 

Edward  Low  cross-questioned  him.  Then  he  went 
to  the  printing  works  and  interviewed  Marsh  and 
the  other  men.  He  returned  to  John  with  a  lugu- 
brious countenance. 

"  Not  much  chance  of  the  coroner's  jury  giving  a 
verdict  of  accidental  death,"  he  informed  John. 
"  You  quarrelled  with  the  man  the  day  before  in 


ANNE  239 

front  of  witnesses,  because  he  objected  to  you  keeping 
his  daughter  there  after  office  hours ;  threatened  to 
get  him  the  sack.  Then  you  keep  the  girl  overtime, 
and  knock  him  downstairs.  You'll  be  charged  with 
homicide,  and  it  is  no  good  blinking  at  it." 

"  Justifiable  homicide  comes  to  the  same  thing, 
I  suppose." 

Edward  Low  fidgeted  through  the  notes  he  had 
made. 

"  Of  course  you  never  do  know  with  a  jury,"  he 
said  carefully. 

William  Dalliac  hurriedly  returned  from  Scotland, 
and  his  consternation  revealed  to  John  that  the  case 
was  not  likely  to  be  so  simple  as  he  had  imagined 
it  was. 

"  When  there's  a  girl  at  the  bottom  of  it,  it  looks 
black,"  he  said. 

"  But  the  girl  was  hardly  at  the  bottom  of  it," 
expostulated  John.  "  She  was  very  much  at  the 
top.  Only  it  would  be  a  shame  to  •  drag  her 
into  it." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  imagine  she  can  be  left 
out,"  said  Edward  Low. 

John  sat  through  the  inquest  in  a  fever  of  weary 
horror.  The  medical  evidence  seemed  to  him  unduly 
and  maddeningly  protracted.  The  man's  neck  was 
broken,  how  could  disgusting  petty  physiological 
details  matter  ?  What  did  it  signify  if  it  was  broken 
before  or  after  he  fell  down  the  stairs  ?  He  was  dead 
anyway.  And  what  did  it  matter  how  drunk  the  man 
had  been,  or  whether  he  was  drunk  at  all  ? 

The  punctilious,  slow  method  of  the  law  tortured 
John.  Why  couldn't  he  be  allowed  to  speak  out  and 
Stop  the  proceedings  by  saying,  "It  is  quite  right, 


240  ANNE 

I  killed  him  ;  but  it  was  an  accident.  Can't  you  all 
see  how  sorry  I  am  ?  Can't  you  sympathise  with  me  ? 
It  is  such  an  awful  thing  to  have  done,  to  have  killed 
a  man  by  mistake.  But  can't  I  be  let  off  this  in- 
quisition ?  Need  you  go  on  rubbing  it  in  ?  I  can't  do 
more  than  own  up,  and  I  shall  suffer  for  it  all  my 
life." 

That  was  what  he  wanted  to  say  ;  instead,  he  had 
to  sit  there  silently  and  listen  to  the  evidence. 

The  men  at  the  works  were  called  as  witnesses. 
They  testified  that  though  Campbell  was  a  heavy 
drinker — "  a  hearty  drinker "  was  the  expression 
Marsh  stuck  to — he  was  not  what  the  coroner  and 
jury  might  call  drunk,  either  the  day  of  his  death  or 
the  day  before  that.  Truculent  he  might  have  been 
— the  men  used  the  word  "  nasty  " — but  that  might 
have  been  due  to  the  natural  spirit  of  the  man,  and  not 
to  the  artificial  stimulus  of  overmuch  whiskey.  At 
any  rate,  he  wasn't  drunk  enough  to  deserve  sudden 
death  was  the  leading  idea  in  their  minds  that 
coloured  their  evidence.  As  for  the  quarrel,  they 
had  all  heard  Campbell's  version  of  his  own  grievance  : 
he  had  objected  to  his  daughter  being  kept  after 
office  hours  by  Mr.  Halliday.  Mr.  Halliday  had 
overridden  him ;  threatened  him  with  dismissal ; 
had  detained  the  girl  the  following  evening.  Then 
there  had  been  an  unwitnessed  row,  and  the  manager 
had  been  knocked  downstairs  and  killed. 

Molly  gave  evidence  very  nervously.  After  an 
interview  with  Edward  Low,  she  was  terrified  lest 
her  testimony  might  somehow  prove  disastrous  for 
John  ;  and  her  anxiety  was  plain.  Her  caution  gave 
the  impression  that  she  was  keeping  something  back. 
She  was  so  young  and  pretty  and  timid  that  the 


ANNE  241 

sympathy  of  the  court  and  the  jury  went  out  to  her 
in  her  distress,  sympathy  that  subtly  reacted  against 
John. 

Mr.  Halliday  had  always  been  very  kind  to  her, 
she  said.  It  was  true  her  father  had  objected  to  her 
staying  late  at  the  office,  but  her  father  had  objected 
to  many  things  she  wanted  to  do.  He  had  been  a 
good  father  to  her,  only  terribly  strict ;  stricter  lately, 
since  her  mother  had  died.  She  liked  working  at 
the  office.  She  had  told  Mr.  Halliday  her  father 
objected  and  had  asked  Mr.  Halliday  to  speak  to  him 
about  it.  On  the  night  of  the  twenty -fifth  her  father 
had  called  her  up  into  his  office,  and  had  ordered  her 
to  go  home.  When  she  said  she  had  not  finished  her 
work  he  boxed  her  ears.  Then  Mr.  Halliday  came 
downstairs  and  prevented  her  father  striking  her 
again  ;  told  her  to  run  away.  That  was  all  she  knew. 
She  did  not  see  her  father  strike  Mr.  Halliday.  She 
saw  nothing.  The  reason  her  father  gave  for  not 
wanting  her  to  work  late  at  the  office  was  (here  she 
broke  down  and  wept)  that  he  said  he  wouldn't  have 
any  nonsense.  She  couldn't  say  what  he  meant  by 
nonsense,  except  that  he  said  he  wouldn't  have  Mr. 
Halliday  put  notions  into  her  head.  She  broke  down 
again,  and  repeated  that  Mr.  Halliday  had  always 
been  very  kind  to  her. 

The  sympathies  of  the  jury  were  with  the  slain  man. 
They  returned  a  verdict  of  "  murder." 

John's  legal  adviser,  who  had  expected  a  verdict 
of  manslaughter,  endeavoured  to  console  him  by 
cursing  the  jury. 

"  A  jury  is  all  very  well  if  you've  a  thundering 
weak  case.  Ten  to  one  they'll  let  a  criminal  off.  If 
you've  a  good  case,  give  me  a  judge.  .  .  .  Perhaps 


242  ANNE 

it  is  just  as  well.  We'll  plead  not  guilty  to  a  murder 
charge  ;  with  a  verdict  of  manslaughter  you  could 
only  have  put  up  a  defence  of  extenuating  circum- 
stances." 

John  bowed  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  What  bowls  me  over,"  he  groaned,  "  isn't  the 
verdict,  it's  the  damned  general  unfairness.  Not 
only  have  I  killed  that  poor  girl's  father,  but  the 
case  for  the  prosecution  seems  to  involve  damaging 
the  girl's  character  by  insinuating  that  I  had  designs 
upon  her.  That  is  so  rotten.  Why  can't  they  leave 
that  alone  ?  " 

"  What  was  there  between  you  and  the  girl  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  man.    Absolutely  nothing." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  never  said  a  word  to  her  that 
wasn't  strictly  business  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  talked  to  her  sometimes." 

"  What  does  she  mean  by  saying  you  were  very 
kind  to  her  ?  Ever  given  her  anything  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing — except  advice." 

"  Advice  ?    What  about  ?  " 

"  Her  private  affairs.  She  had  religious  difficulties  ; 
we  discussed  the  subject  occasionally.  But  under- 
stand, I  won't  have  that  brought  up  !  I've  done  the 
girl  quite  enough  harm  without  that.  I  won't  have 
her  publicly  cross-questioned  about  her  most  intimate 
personal  feelings." 

"  You  needn't  worry  about  that,"  said  the  harassed 
solicitor.  "  It  isn't  likely  I'd  want  to  come  out  with 
such  a  poor  tale.  Who's  going  to  believe  that  you 
kept  a  pretty  girl  after  office  hours  to  discuss  her 
religious  difficulties  ?  If  you're  going  to  pitch  a 
tale,  don't  pitch  a  pious  one.  Sanctimoniousness  is 
the  last  thing  to  go  down  with  the  British  jury." 


ANNE  243 

John  discovered  that  while  all  his  friends  and 
acquaintances  had  a  satisfyingly  firm  faith  in  his 
innocence  of  the  charge  of  felonious  homicide  they  had 
an  equally  firm  faith  in  the  theory  that  behind  the 
quarrel  and  the  accident  was  some  intrigue  with  the 
girl  Molly.  Opinion  was  divided  as  to  whether  he 
was  animated  by  a  chivalrous  desire  to  shield  the  girl, 
or  by  an  equally  mistaken  notion  that  he  was  defend- 
ing himself;  it  was  unanimous  in  its  belief  that 
there  was  something  to  be  repudiated  or  confessed. 

An  aunt  from  Scotland  had  appeared  on  the  scene 
and  taken  charge  of  Molly  with  a  firm  hand.  John, 
anxious  to  know  how  she  fared,  wrote  to  her  and  got 
no  answer,  until  one  afternoon  an  old  man  was 
ushered  in  to  him,  a  grey-haired,  clean-shaven  old 
man  in  shabby  clerical  dress. 

"  I'm  Father  Meredith,"  he  announced.  "  I've 
come  at  the  request  of  Miss  Molly  Campbell,  who  is 
very  upset  because  her  aunt  will  not  permit  her  to 
answer  your  letter.  She  was  so  miserable,  poor 
child,  that  I  undertook  to  explain  to  you  the  reason 
for  her  silence.  The  aunt  seems  a  sensible  woman, 
somewhat  hard,  but  she  is  not  unkind  to  the  child. 
She  takes  the  view  that  she  is  in  a  difficult  position, 
and  of  course  she  is  right." 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  all  the  way  to 
Brixton !  Do  sit  down.  Are  you  the  priest  she  spoke 
to  me  about  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  I  must  be." 

"  I  suppose  now  she'll  become  a  Catholic,  poor 
child,"  was  John's  next  attempt  at  carrying  on  the 
conversation  felicitously. 

The  old  man  smiled. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure.    I  shall  be  very  surprised  if  the 


244  ANNE 

aunt  lets  her  wander  so  far.  She  seems  a  woman  of 
character,  and,  I  fancy,  means  to  take  her  away  to 
Scotland  as  soon  as  possible.  That  will  be  the  best 
thing  for  her." 

John  looked  surprised. 

"  She  came  from  Scotland.  All  her  friends  are 
there,"  explained  the  old  man. 

"  I  know,  only  I  thought  you'd  want  to  keep  her 
here,"  said  John. 

"  To  make  a  convert  of  her  ?  She  needs  more  time. 
At  present  she  just  has  a  taste  for  ritual,  and  was 
moved  by  the  wish  to  escape  from  the  jurisdiction 
of  her  father."  He  smiled.  "  Now,  Mr.  Halliday,  I 
have  fulfilled  my  mission."  He  rose  to  go,  but  was 
detained  by  John's  next  question. 

"  Father  Meredith,  you  don't  believe  ...  I  don't 
want  her  friends  to  believe  that  there  is  anything 
underhand  going  on.  Her  father  was  a  cantan- 
kerous man  :  he  hit  her,  it  made  my  blood  boil,  and 
I  struck  him.  Honestly,  if  she  had  been  a  child  of 
ten  I  should  have  done  the  same." 

"  I  think  she  knows  that.  She  has  the  very  greatest 
respect  for  you.  As  for  gossip  and  speculations, 
people's  memories  are  shorter  than  their  tongues. 
A  very  little  time  brings  forgetfulness.  Suspicions 
by  themselves  don't  make  tragedies,  or  there'd  be 
very  little  peace  in  the  world." 

"  I  wish  there  was  something  I  could  do,"  said 
John  wistfully. 

The  old  man  scrutinised  his  haggard  young  face, 
then  said  simply  : 

"  We  are  all  in  God's  hands,  my  son.  I  will  pray 
for  you." 

"  I'm  not  a  Catholic,"  said  John  hastily. 


ANNE  245 

"  You  mean  you  would  prefer  to  dispense  with  the 
prayers  of  an  old  man  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not  such  an  ungracious  cur.  I  only 
meant  I  didn't  want  them  on  false  pretences." 

Father  Meredith  laughed.  "  We  priests  get  funny 
things  said  to  us  sometimes,"  he  remarked  genially 
as  he  shook  hands. 

John,  whose  spirit  was  sore,  liked  the  old  man,  for 
he  was  simple  and  kind  and  unworldly,  and  the 
sympathy  he  had  hitherto  received  was  as  futile  as 
a  misplaced  surgical  dressing ;  that  is,  it  was  applied 
to  a  sound  limb  while  his  real  wound  was  left  un- 
healed. 

Anne  heard  of  his  predicament  from  Francesca. 
The  case  had  not  been  reported  in  Le  Matin,  and 
she  and  Marian  were  seeing  no  English  newspapers. 
She  was  furious. 

"  How  perfectly  idiotic  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  As 
if  John  would  murder  anyone  !  Why  he  wouldn't 
hurt  a  fly.  I  suppose  I'd  better  go  back  and  give 
evidence." 

"  What  about  ?  "  enquired  Marian.  "  You  weren't 
there." 

"  But  I  can  tell  them  how  kind  and  harmless  he 
always  was." 

"  They'll  never  let  you,"  Marian  assured  her. 
"  The  fact  that  he  never  knocked  you  downstairs 
isn't  evidence.  He's  not  accused  of  ill-treating  you  : 
he's  accused  of  killing  a  man  you've  never  set  eyes 
on." 

Nevertheless  Anne  decided  to  return  to  London. 
She  accordingly  left  just  before  the  date  fixed  for 
John's  trial.  She  notified  nobody  of  her  intention. 
When  Francesca  returned  from  a  shopping  expedi- 


246  ANNE 

tion  she  heard  that  Anne  was  in  the  nursery  with 
Phil.    She  ran  upstairs. 

"  Anne  dear  !  "  She  kissed  her.  "  Why  didn't 
you  wire  ?  I'd  have  come  to  the  station  to  meet  you. 
What  an  unaccountable  child  you  are  !  Gilbert  is 
out." 

"  I'm  worried  about  John.  I've  come  over  to  see 
if  there  was  anything  I  can  do." 

"  Everything  possible  is  being  done.  Mr.  Dalliac 
has  got  him  the  best  legal  advice,  and  they've  briefed 
Yarborough  to  defend  him." 

"  Why  isn't  Mr.  Ackroyd  defending  him  ?  " 

"  Gilbert  says  he's  not  the  best  counsel  for  a  case 
like  this,  because  it  isn't  a  complicated  question  of 
law.  It  will  be  a  matter  of  playing  on  the  feelings  of 
the  jury.  His  defence  is  that  it  was  an  accident." 

"  Of  course  it  was  an  accident !  Poor  John  !  I 
must  go  to  him.  I  expect  he'd  like  to  see  me." 

Francesca  looked  at  her  watch. 

"  Yes,  of  course.    I'll  take  you  now,  if  you  like  ?  " 

"  I  can  go  alone." 

"  I  was  going,  anyway.  Gilbert  arranged  I  should 
to-day.  He  wrote  and  asked  to  see  me.  He  is  at 
Brixton." 

"  In  prison  ?    How  ridiculous  !  " 

They  sent  for  a  taxi,  and  drove  out,  keeping  up  a 
desultory  duet  of  questions  and  answers  about  Phil, 
and  Anne's  journey,  navigating  the  waters  of  conver- 
sation cautiously  to  avoid  running  on  to  hidden  and 
uncharted  shoals.  On  the  way,  Anne  stopped  the 
cab  at  a  florist's  and  bought  an  armful  of  flowers 
red  roses  and  lilies-of-the-valley  and  violets.  Fran- 
cesca thought  her  recklessly  extravagant.  It  was 
mid-winter. 


ANNE  247 

John's  face  lit  up  with  a  rapturous  smile  when  he 
saw  Anne.  Tears  came  into  his  eyes  as  she  gave  him 
the  flowers. 

"  Anne  !  Fancy  you  bringing  me  all  these  !  How 
did  you  know  I  was  longing  for  flowers  ?  I  didn't 
know  it  myself.  No.  I'll  enjoy  them  after  you're 
gone.  I  want  to  look  at  you  now." 

After  he  had  greeted  Francesca  and  thanked  her 
for  coming,  he  said,  "  Anne,  don't  come  to  the  trial." 

"  I  thought  you'd  like  your  friends  there." 

"It  is  good  to  see  you  again,  but  I  should  hate 
you  to  watch  me  in  the  dock." 

"  That  is  nonsense,  John.  It  is  all  a  mistake. 
You'll  be  out  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes,  if  they've 
any  sense." 

"  I  don't  know — it  is  all  like  a  nightmare,  except 
you  coming  like  this.  When  did  you  get  back  ?  " 

"  Only  a  few  hours  ago.  I  came  over  to  see  you. 
As  soon  as  you're  free  I'm  going  back  again." 

"  Oh,  surely  not,  Anne  !  "  came  from  Francesca. 

"  Yes  I  am." 

"  What  for  ?  "  asked  John. 

Anne  flushed,  but  she  seized  this  opportunity  of 
enlightening  Francesca,  and,  through  her,  Gilbert, 
by  an  indirect  method. 

"  I've  got  my  work.  I've  found  out  what  I  can 
do,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it  and  make  money." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Designing.  I  can  design  wonderful  dresses,  and 
sell  the  designs  to  the  big  dressmaking  firms." 
Through  her  long  lashes  she  glanced  sideways  at 
Francesca  to  see  how  she  received  this  information. 
Francesca  looked  perplexed  and  thwarted.  "  I  can 
make  a  lot  of  money  over  it." 


248  ANNE 

"Couldn't  you  play  at  the  game  in  London  ?" 
pleaded  John. 

"  I  suppose  I  could,  but  .  .  ."  She  hastily  turned 
the  conversation.  "  But  I  came  to  see  you,  not  to 
talk  about  anything  so  frivolous  as  frocks  when 
you're  in  trouble." 

John  leaned  over  his  clasped  hands  on  the  table 
and  spoke  earnestly.  "  But,  Anne,  it  is  me  ;  I  mean 
what  you're  doing  matters  to  me  more  than  any- 
thing. I'm  ...  I'm  your  trustee,  and  though  I've 
relinquished  that,  I  can't  help  thinking  the  same 
way." 

"  Relinquished  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  thought  I'd  better.  Didn't  Gilbert  tell 
you  ?  " 

"  I've  not  seen  him  yet." 

"  You  see  there  is  a  chance  that  I'll  get  sent  to 
prison  for  manslaughter." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  John  !    Don't  be  so  gloomy." 

"  Well  I've  got  to  be  prepared  for  it." 

"  You  won't  get  sent  to  prison,"  she  said  in- 
credulously, and  turned  to  Francesca  for  confirma- 
tion, but  Francesca  merely  looked  worried. 

"  If  I  am,"  he  persisted,  "  it  would  worry  me 
horribly  if  I  didn't  know  you  were  safely  in  England. 
Anne,  won't  you  promise  me  that  if  I  do  get  sent  to 
prison  you  won't  go  away  to  Paris,  at  any  rate  till 
I  come  out  ?  " 

"  What  difference  can  it  make  to  you  if  I'm  safely 
in  London  or  safely  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  All  the  difference  in  the  world." 

"  All  right.  I  promise.  You  won't  get  sent  to 
prison.  Of  course  you  won't !  It  is  safe  to  promise 
anything.  It  is  a  ridiculous  idea.  It's  this  depressing 


ANNE  249 

place  makes  you  think  of  such  things."  She  gave  a 
little  shiver.  "  Poor  John,  what  a  shame  it  all  is  1 
Let  me  put  the  flowers  in  water  for  you  before 
we  go.  Where  can  I  find  vases  and  water  ?  " 

While  she  was  occupied  with  the  flowers,  Fran- 
cesca  said  to  John  : 

"  Was  there  anything  you  were  going  to  ask  me  to 
do  for  you  ?  " 

He  had  written  to  ask  her  to  come  to  him  ;  told 
her  he  had  a  favour  to  beg.  She  imagined  he  was 
going  to  request  her  to  befriend  the  girl,  Molly 
Campbell. 

"  Yes,"  said  John.  "  If  I  do  get  locked  up  I  shall 
be  allowed  occasional  letters.  Will  you  write  to  me 
sometimes,  and  tell  me  all  about  Anne  ?  Tell  me 
what  is  happening  to  her,  whether  she  is  well  and 
happy  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ?  "  He  spoke  in  a 
low,  hurried,  urgent  voice.  "  Will  you  do  this  for 
me  ?  It  will  be  hell  if  I  don't  know  about  her.  If 
she  writes  herself  she'll  just  write  anything  she  thinks 
will  cheer  me  up.  I  want  to  know  that  I  shall  hear 
how  things  really  go  with  her,  whatever  happens. 
That's  the  one  thing  I  couldn't  bear,  not  knowing 
about  Anne." 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  will." 

He  thanked  her  with  a  grip  of  her  hand  that  drove 
her  rings  into  her  fingers,  and  the  sombre  trouble  in 
his  face  lifted. 

Gilbert  came  home  late  that  evening,  after  dinner. 

"  Hello  !  "  he  exclaimed  when  he  perceived  Anne 
in  the  depths  of  an  arm-chair  by  the  drawing-room 
fire.  "  So  you've  deigned  to  come  back  ?  " 

"  I  was  worried  about  John,"  she  explained  coldly. 

"  Yes,  poor  chap,"  he  replied  uneasily. 


250  ANNE 

There  was  an  awkward  silence.  Anne  never  stirred, 
and  he  stood  on  the  hearth-rug  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  looking  down  at  her  moodily.  Their  minds  were 
full  of  John's  trouble,  and  their  hearts  were  full  of 
their  own.  The  memory  of  their  last  angry  scene 
lay  between  them  :  they  each  desired  to  exonerate- 
themselves  from  blame  and  retaliate  somehow, 
however  crudely,  upon  each  other  for  the  bitterness 
they  both  experienced. 

"  There  isn't  really  a  chance  of  John  going  to  prison 
is  there  ?  "  Anne  asked. 

"  I'm  afraid  there  is." 

"  Can't  you  do  anything  ?  " 

"  He's  got  the  best  possible  counsel.  His  defence 
is  that  it  was  an  accident." 

"  Of  course  it  was  an  accident." 

"  Yes,  but  he'd  had  a  row  with  the  man  the  day 
before,  and  there's  the  girl  in  the  case."  Gilbert 
felt  more  at  ease  now  .they  had  found  a  conversational 
opening.  He  drew  up  a  chair  between  his  wife  and 
sister  and  sat  down,  and  Francesca  left  off  counting 
the  stitches  of  her  knitting. 

"  What  girl  ?  " 

"  Campbell's  daughter,  his  secretary — a  very  pretty 
girl  too." 

Anne  stood  up,  and  stared  down  into  the  fire  with 
a  heightened  colour  in  her  face.  She  had  imagined 
John  to  be  exclusively  devoted  to  her,  had  regarded 
him  as  her  especial  property.  She  wouldn't  have 
objected  to  his  falling  in  love  with  someone  of  whom 
she  approved ;  she  would  have  extended  the  sanc- 
tion of  her  approbation  to  somebody  nice  and  rich 
and  sensible,  somebody  not  too  fascinating,  nor  at 
all  exacting,  who  would  have  made  John  a  good 


ANNE  251 

wife  and  recognised  her  (Anne's)  prior  claim  on  his 
admiration  and  adoration :  with  these  qualifica- 
tions she  would  have  rejoiced  over  John's  good  for- 
tune ;  but  that  he  should  get  involved  in  a  brawl 
over  a  pretty,  insignificant,  uneducated  girl  astounded 
her  unpleasantly. 

"  All  men  are  alike  !  "  she  said  bitterly.  "  I'm 
tired.  I'm  going  to  bed.  Good  night."  And  with 
her  head  held  high  she  marched  away,  and  they  heard 
her  bang  and  lock  her  bedroom  door. 

"  She  must  be  worn  out,"  said  Francesca  tolerantly. 
"  She  crossed  to-day,  and  we've  been  all  the  way  to 
Brixton.  I  don't  believe  one  word  about  that  girl. 
John  seems  to  be  hopelessly  in  love  with  Anne." 

John's  counsel  was  an  ingenious  man,  and  put  up 
a  series  of  vigorous  defences.  He  pleaded  that,  as 
on  the  testimony  of  the  witnesses  only  a  few  seconds 
had  elapsed  between  the  time  John  left  the  men  at 
the  printing  machines  and  the  moment  when  they 
were  called  downstairs  by  the  boy,  the  assault,  or 
fight,  could  not  have  been  of  a  serious  nature,  until 
it  was  pointed  out  by  the  prosecution  that  it  had 
been  serious  enough  to  cause  death,  when  he  discarded 
that  line,  and  pleaded  provocation,  the  gross  provo- 
cation of  seeing  an  innocent  girl  maltreated  by  a 
drunken  bully.  The  counsel  for  the  Crown  pointed 
out  that  they  had  no  evidence  that  the  man  was 
drunk  ;  that  he  was  the  girl's  father  ;  that  by  all 
accounts  he  was  an  excellent  father ;  and  that  the 
men  had  quarrelled  the  day  before  on  the  question 
of  the  girl  being  kept  overtime  ;  that  in  detaining  her 
overtime  the  provocation  that  led  to  the  fatal  quarrel 
had  rather  been  given  by  the  prisoner ;  and  that 
the  protection  of  the  girl  devolved  on  her  natural 


252  ANNE 

guardian,  her  father,  and  not  on  her  self-appointed 
champion,  whose  attitude  to  her  was  unexplained. 

The  counsel  for  the  defence  made  an  eloquent 
and  impassioned  address  to  the  jury.  John  listened 
to  it  with  the  detached  admiration  he  would  have 
given  to  a  similar  performance  on  the  stage.  He 
could  not  quite  realise  that  it  was  his  own  life  and 
liberty  at  stake,  it  seemed  too  grotesque.  He 
watched  the  faces  of  the  jury,  middle-aged  men, 
most  of  them  old  enough  to  have  daughters  of  Molly's 
age — did  they  impute  evil  to  innocent  minds,  and 
strike  their  children  ?  He  wondered  if  they  were 
all  believing  the  very  worst  of  him  ;  and  were  they 
much  to  blame  if  they  were  ?  After  all,  the  majority 
of  good  citizens  kept  out  of  the  dock  in  the  criminal 
court.  A  certain  prejudice  against  any  sane  man 
who  was  found  therein  was  excusable  ;  the  odds 
were  in  favour  of  his  being  a  fool  or  a  knave.  John 
found  himself  trying  to  judge  the  jury  kindly,  and 
hoping  they  would  be  as  fair  to  him  as  he  was  being 
to  them. 

The  judge  summed  up  the  case  with  the  oracular 
impartiality  of  a  machine  into  which  the  opposing 
counsel  had  poured  their  respective  eloquence,  and 
which,  by  its  inner  mechanism,  mingled  all  their 
facts  together  and  gave  back  a  mixture  of  both, 
much  as  a  loom  supplied  with  black  and  white 
threads  might  yield  a  final  product  of  checked  cloth. 
He  pointed  out  that  the  law  presupposed  every  un- 
lawful killing  to  be  murder,  and  that  the  onus  of 
proof  that  would  reduce  the  offence  to  manslaughter 
lay  upon  the  defence  ;  that  the  only  witness  for  the 
defence  was  the  prisoner  himself ;  that  if  the  jury 
believed  the  prisoner's  own  story,  that  the  fatal 


ANNE  253 

blow  was  struck  in  sudden  unpremeditated  anger 
they  would  find  a  verdict  of  manslaughter ;  but  that 
if  they  believed  the  quarrel  arose  out  of  ill-will  of 
longer  duration,  if  in  fact  they  found  the  blow  was 
delivered  in  malice  aforethought,  it  was  their  duty 
to  find  the  prisoner  guilty  of  murder. 

After  an  absence  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  jury 
returned  with  a  verdict  of  manslaughter,  and  the 
judge  pronounced  a  sentence  of  five  years  penal 
servitude. 

John's  white  lips  moved.  He  tried  to  cry  out, 
"  That's  awfully  unfair  !  "  but  some  force  inside  his 
brain  controlled  his  despairing,  rebellious  spirit,  and 
kept  him  silent.  The  trust  in  the  intrinsic  goodness 
of  human  nature  that  children  bring  into  the  world 
with  them,  the  belief  that  however  cruel  life  may 
be  to  other  people  it  will  be  gentle  to  oneself,  dies 
hard.  He  had  never  really  thought  that  they  would 
be  so  cruelly,  stupidly  unjust.  His  one  coherent 
thought  as  he  left  the  court  was  a  passionate  regret 
that  he  had  asked  Anne  not  to  come  to  the  trial.  He 
longed  desperately  for  one  last  glimpse  of  her  dear 
little  face  before  he  was  put  away  into  prison  for 
five  years. 

The  sentence  was  a  surprise  to  John's  friends. 
They  had  expected  the  verdict,  but  had  anticipated 
that  he  would  get  the  minimum  sentence.  They 
were  sorry  for  him  ;  but  they  had  all  done  their 
best,  and  he  had  been  a  fool.  All  they  could  do  now 
was  to  pass  on,  and  submit  to  his  fate  with  a  sustain- 
ing sense  of  relief  that  it  wasn't  theirs.  Gilbert,  on 
the  way  back  to  Chelsea,  tried  to  think  of  a  way  of 
breaking  the  news  to  Anne.  After  all,  she  wasn't 
heartless,  and  would  feel  it  keenly. 


254  ANNE 

She  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  hall. 

"  Well  ? "  she  asked,  and  her  blue  eyes  were 
imperious. 

"  Manslaughter  they  found  it,"  he  said  reluctantly. 

"  Is  he  to  go  to  prison  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  For  how  long  ?    How  long  for  ?  "  she  persisted. 

"  Five  years." 

She  stared  at  him  incredulously.    "  Five  years  !  " 

Gilbert  nodded,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  coat. 

"  Can't  something  be  done  about  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not." 

"  It  isn't  fair — just  for  killing  a  man  !  " 

He  followed  her  into  the  dining-room,  and  crouched 
over  the  fire.  There  was  a  cold  damp  fog  outside. 

"  Appearances  were  against  him  about  the  girl." 

"  And  people  who  do  much  worse  things  don't 
get  imprisoned  !  It's  frightfully  unfair  !  "  She 
clenched  her  fists,  and  her  underlip  quivered.  He 
could  see  her  lashes  lying  on  her  cheeks  in  long  wet 
points.  She  looked  a  pathetic  little  creature,  and 
with  a  sudden  impulse  he  stretched  out  his  hand 
to  take  hers,  but  she  snatched  it  away. 

"  Don't  touch  me  !  "  sha  said. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

GILBERT  had  imagined  that  when  Anne  came  home 
he  would  be  able  to  adjust  the  situation  she  had 
created ;  but  he  could  not  find  the  phrases.  He 
was  extremely  angry  when  Anne  repulsed  his  attempts 
to  make  peace. 

All  his  life,  whatever  he  wanted  had  come  to  him 
without  requiring  much  effort  from  him.  He  had 
passed  his  examinations  without  difficulty  though 
without  distinction.  He  was  good-looking,  well- 
born, intelligent ;  he  found  the  world  an  amiable 
place.  Franceses  had  been  a  model  sister,  he  had 
never  quarrelled  with  her.  He  had  won  Anne  with- 
out any  difficulty,  he  had  been  happy.  He  was 
only  moderately  successful  in  his  profession,  but  he 
was  not  personally  ambitious.  He  was  always 
inclined  to  take  the  line  of  least  resistance  provided 
it  did  not  lead  him  to  trespass  on  obviously  dangerous 
ground.  Anne  was  made  differently :  she  always 
went  straight  on  in  the  direction  she  wished  to  go, 
regardless  of  danger,  or  difficulties,  or  notice  boards 
warning  trespassers  of  prosecution.  It  amused 
Gilbert  to  watch  her,  as  long  as  she  confined  her 
trespassing  within  the  boundaries  of  other  people's 
prejudices  ;  but  when  she  disregarded  his  landmarks, 
and  wandered  off  the  path  of  rectitude  as  it  was 
marked  on  his  plan  of  the  moral  universe,  he  was 

255 


256  ANNE 

indignant.  He  magnified  her  offences  in  order  to 
palliate  his  own,  or  at  least  to  dwarf  his  own  into 
insignificance.  Anne  had  not  only  behaved  badly 
herself,  she  had  provoked  him  into  losing  his  temper 
and  behaving  badly  too.  He  found  it  more  difficult 
to  forgive  her  for  not  wanting  his  forgiveness  when 
he  offered  it  than  for  not  forgiving  him.  He  would 
have  liked  to  have  it  out  with  her  if  he  could  have 
been  quite  sure  beforehand  that  the  result  of  such  a 
debate  would  have  left  him  with  the  honours  in  his 
hands  ;  but  he  was  not  at  all  sure.  Anne  cared 
nothing  for  his  dignity  or  her  own  if  it  came  to  a 
scene.  She  was  as  incalculable  as  Phil,  who  was  wont 
to  throw  anything  he  could  lay  hands  on  out  of  the 
nursery  window  when  he  was  in  a  temper.  If  he 
had  had  a  perfectly  clear  conscience  it  would  have 
been  easy  to  manage  her,  but  as  it  was  he  hesitated 
about  engaging  her  in  a  duel  of  wills.  He  felt  like 
an  unarmed  man  who  did  not  know  what  weapons 
his  adversary  secretly  possessed  or  meant  to  use,  a 
strong  disinclination  to  open  combat. 

Indirectly  his  rankling  sense  of  discomfort  led  to 
his  quarrelling  with  Laura  Blake.  He  had  been 
accustomed  to  confide  in  her,  not  because  he  valued 
her  advice,  but  because  he  was  soothed  by  her 
sympathy.  She  was  too  egotistical  to  divine  that 
he  was  suffering  on  account  of  the  estrangement  of 
his  wife ;  she  attributed  his  despondency  to  his 
financial  worries.  As  he  was  worried  about  money 
he  assented  to  this  interpretation  of  his  depression. 
One  evening  when  he  was  dining  with  her,  she  broke 
a  gloomy  silence  by  saying  : 

"  Charles  has  a  new  thing  up  his  sleeve." 

As    she    rarely    mentioned    her    husband    Gilbert 


ANNE  257 

guessed  that  there  was  some  purpose  behind  her 
irrelevance. 

"  He  doesn't  often  let  me  into  his  secrets,"  she  went 
on.  "  But  I  opened  a  telegram  of  his  and  asked 
questions.  He  said  it  really  is  a  good  thing.  Nitrates 
this  time,  whatever  they  may  be.  Anyway  they've 
found  them  on  the  property  of  the  Heron's  Creek 
Silver  Mining  Company.  The  shares  are  low  now ; 
they  are  going  to  jump  up  in  a  day  or  two,  according 
to  Charlie.  Why  don't  you  buy  some  and  make  a 
little  fortune  ?  " 

"  These  things  sound  so  simple  always,"  Gilbert 
remarked  vaguely. 

"  But  they  are  when  you  know.  This  is  a  straight 
tip.  Charlie  only  told  me  to  keep  me  in  a  good  mind, 
he  wished  me  to  be  polite  to  some  of  the  impossible 
men  he  will  bring  home  to  dinner." 

Gilbert  evaded  a  discussion  on  the  subject,  but 
the  matter  remained  in  his  mind.  He  ruminated 
upon  it  as  he  walked  home  to  Chelsea.  He  did 
not  doubt  the  accuracy  of  the  information — Charles 
Blake  knew  how  to  make  money.  He  disliked 
speculation,  but  he  equally  disliked  being  in  debt. 
He  had  not  the  gambling  temperament,  but  neither 
had  he  the  temperament  to  bear  with  placidity 
sordid  money  troubles  that  pinched  his  pride.  His 
mind  played  with  the  temptation  as  a  cat  plays  with 
a  mouse,  only  sometimes  the  rdles  were  reversed; 
at  moments  he  felt  as  if  he  were  the  mouse  and  the 
temptation  was  the  cat. 

But  Anne  had  a  curious  power  over  him.  If  he  had 
lost  her  affection,  it  might  come  back.  He  took 
that  easily,  for  temper ;  but  he  desired  her  good 
opinion,  and  was  determined  to  deserve  it.  He  could 


258  ANNE 

placate  himself  with  the  theory  that  Anne  would 
forgive  his  momentary  infatuation  for  Laura  Blake, 
afterwards.  She  would  despise  him  if  he  gambled 
and  lost  money  ;  but  she  would  judge  him  more 
harshly  for  making  money  in  an  unhonourable  way. 
He  finally  decided  that  it  was  dishonourable  of 
Laura  Blake  to  have  given  him  the  information  and 
urged  him  to  make  use  of  it. 

The  next  time  he  saw  her  she  questioned  him  on 
the  subject. 

"  I  hope  you  made  a  good  thing  out  of  Heron's 
Creek  shares  ?  " 

They  had  fulfilled  all  the  predictions  by  rising 
prodigiously. 

"  No  ;   I  left  them  alone." 

"  Hadn't  you  faith  in  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  decided  not  to  use  the  information." 

"  Whyever  not  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  hardly  the  right  thing  to  do." 

She  annoyed  him  by  raising  her  eyebrows  super- 
ciliously. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  some  male  esoteric  code  of 
honour  that  a  mere  woman  cannot  be  expected  to 
understand  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  know  Anne  would  have  agreed 
with  me  if  I'd  asked  her,  she's  awfully  straight." 

Gilbert  was  off  his  guard,  the  remark  slipped  out 
quite  innocently.  Lady  Blake  never  forgave  him ;  nor, 
to  do  Gilbert  justice,  did  he  ever  ask  her  to  do  so. 

Anne's  decision  to  say  nothing  but  to  go  her  own 
way  enabled  him  to  behave  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, and  to  pretend  that  the  "  nothing "  that 
separated  them  like  an  unsheathed  sword  was  her 
doing  and  not  his. 


ANNE  259 

The  success  that  rewards  the  attempts  of  two 
people  to  behave  as  though  nothing  had  happened 
depends,  when  the  two  amateur  actors  are  man  and 
wife,  upon  the  amount  of  discomfort  experienced  by 
the  audience  for  whose  benefit  the  play  is  produced, 
success  being  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  discomfort. 
When  the  audience  is  a  stranger,  or  an  obtuse  or 
slow-witted  acquaintance,  the  discomfort  inflicted 
will  probably  be  at  zero,  and  the  success  complete, 
if  not  gratifying  to  the  two  performers  :  but  when 
the  audience  is  a  friend  and  a  relation  the  discomfort 
is  likely  to  be  complete,  and  the  resultant  illusion 
nil. 

Francesca  was  not  only  a  friend  and  relation, 
but  a  guest.  She  found  the  "  nothing  whatever 
the  matter "  farce  too  uncomfortable  to  witness 
from  the  front  row  of  the  stalls,  as  it  were,  and 
retreated  a  little  farther  off.  To  drop  the  metaphor, 
after  watching  the  strenuous  efforts  of  Gilbert  and 
Anne  to  deceive  her  into  the  delusion  that  every- 
thing was  all  right  in  the  face  of  her  knowledge  that 
everything  was  all  wrong,  she  went  back  to  her  own 
home.  It  was  not  impatience  with  them,  nor  any 
selfish  desire  to  spare  herself  annoyance  that  took 
her  away,  but  the  belief  that  in  her  absence  they 
would  come  to  their  senses. 

Her  letters  to  John  Halliday  in  Parkhurst  Prison 
were  the  only  record  of  her  impression.  The  first 
year  of  his  imprisonment  he  was  allowed  two  letters. 

"  DEAR  JOHN, 

There  is  very  little  news  to  tell  you ;  but 
I  must  keep  my  promise  of  writing  to  you  about 
Anne.  She  is  looking  very  well,  prettier  than  ever, 


260  ANNE 

and  her  work,  as  she  calls  it,  seems  to  be  not  only 
an  amusing  but  a  lucrative  occupation  for  her. 
She  is  certainly  very  clever,  not  only  in  designing 
wonderful  frocks,  but  in  obtaining  what  seems 
to  me  exorbitant  prices  for  her  sketches.  She  is 
very  original,  some  of  those  I've  seen  are  most 
picturesque,  others  very  daring.  I  can't  think 
who  wears  them.  And  the  extravagance  of  them  ! 
There  must  be  many  more  millionaires  in  the 
world  than  were  dreamed  of  in  my  humble  con- 
ception. Gilbert  doesn't  seem  to  mind  her  making 
money,  and  she  certainly  enjoys  spending  it.  I 
cannot  be  truthful  and  say  I  am  happy  about 
those  two.  They  seem  to  be  drifting  apart.  I 
tried  to  probe  Anne,  but  it  was  like  trying  to 
probe  a  limpet  when  it  is  determined  to  cling 
fast  to  its  rock  of  reserve.  She  usen't  to  have 
such  a  hard  shell  to  retire  into  ;  she  seems  to  have 
grown  one  quite  suddenly.  But  after  all  they 
cannot  drift  very  far  apart  with  the  child  to  draw 
them  together.  It  is  a  great  pity  there  is  only  the 
one.  Phil  is  a  cheery  imp  and  is  staying  with  me 
at  the  moment.  He  has  just  appeared  at  the 
window,  looking  rather  disconcerted,  saying : 
*  Francesca,  I've  swallowed  a  grasshopper  !  '  I 
enquired  however  he  came  to  do  that  and  he  said  : 
'  I  was  only  just  kissing  it,  and  it  hopped  down 
my  throat.'  I  don't  suppose  it  will  hurt  him,  I 
believe  they  are  akin  to  locusts,  and  locusts  and 
wild  honey  must  be  more  or  less  nutritious  diet, 
according  to  the  Bible." 

Francesca  stopped,   and  read  through  the  letter 
with  misgivings.     Was  this  gossiping  trivial  chatter 


ANNE  261 

the  kindest  letter  she  could  write  to  an  imprisoned 
man  ?  She  had  never  written  to  a  prisoner  before. 
She  knew  the  letters  were  read  by  a  censor  and 
thought  that  John  would  not  want  her  to  write 
about  himself.  He  would  not  think  her  unsym- 
pathetic. Although  she  was  not  satisfied  with  it 
she  concluded  with  all  the  kind  messages  she  had 
collected  for  his  comfort. 

Later  in  the  year,  when  John  might  receive  another 
letter,  she  had  more  news  to  tell  him.  Anne  had 
declined  to  write,  on  the  grounds  that,  as  he  was 
allowed  so  few  letters,  she  surmised  he  would  wish 
to  hear  from  "  that  girl."  Francesca  didn't  express 
her  conviction  that  John's  thoughts  were  centred  in 
one  person,  because  she  thought  that  Anne  was 
getting  spoilt.  However  she  wrote  herself. 

"  DEAR  JOHN, 

Anne  sends  you  her  love,  but  as  letter- 
writing  is  not  her  metier  she  delegates  your  letter 
to  me.  I  am  shortly  leaving  my  cottage.  An 
uncle  of  my  late  husband  has  recently  died  and  I 
come  in  for  a  share  of  his  estate.  He  was  a  very 
wealthy  shipowner  and  I  shall  be  comparatively 
a  rich  woman.  I  am  thinking  of  renting  Crane 
Hall  from  Gilbert  and  making  my  home  there.  It 
has  been  empty  since  the  Dalliacs  gave  it  up. 
I  am  very  fond  of  it  and  shall  like  to  keep  it  in  the 
family.  Then  Gilbert  and  Anne  can  really  regard 
it  as  their  home,  and  as  it  will  be  Phil's  in  time  it 
will  be  so  nice  for  him  to  spend  some  of  his  child- 
hood there.  Gilbert  and  Anne  are  very  generous 
in  lending  him  to  me.  As  for  Anne  she  is  well  and 
prettier  than  ever.  Sometimes  I  feel  a  little  per- 


262  ANNE 

turbed  because  some  of  the  people  she  gets  to  know 
aren't  very  good  associates  for  her.  But  what  can 
one  do  ?  She  has  chosen  a  frivolous  profession, 
and  takes  it  desperately  seriously.  Yet  under- 
neath all  the  frivolity  is  her  very  innocent  love 
for  pretty  things.  Often  I  wish  she  weren't  quite 
so  mad,  then  when  I  am  with  her,  I  catch  her 
enthusiasm  for  the  joy  of  life  and  wish  she  would 
bite  everyone  else." 

Francesca  considered  that  this  gave  a  faithful 
account  of  Anne  sailing  off  exploring  new  fairy  lands 
alone,  leaving  behind  her  husband  as  a  benevolent 
spectator,  and  herself,  Francesca,  in  the  background, 
fidgeting  over  her  welfare,  yet  not  daring  to  interfere 
lest  Anne  be  provoked  into  a  rebellion  and  a  quarrel. 
Once  or  twice  they  had  come  perilously  near  it. 
Francesca  had  no  scruples  about  omitting  certain 
doubts  she  felt  with  regard  to  Gilbert.  It  was 
Anne  John  was  interested  in.  There  was  no  need  for 
her  to  commit  to  paper  her  opinion  about  her  brother  : 
she  considered  he  was  neglecting  Anne,  and  she 
wondered  whether  Anne  was  too  engrossed  in  her 
own  work  and  interests  to  notice  it,  and  whether  it 
was  loyalty  or  lack  of  interest  that  kept  her  so 
apparently  indifferent. 

Francesca  prepared  Crane  Hall  for  her  own  habita- 
tion in  low  spirits.  The  flavour  evaporated  from  all 
her  hospitable  plans  if  the  two  principal  ingredients 
steadily  refused  to  enter  into  the  recipe  in  a  palatable 
combination.  In  London,  when  Gilbert  wasn't  in  his 
chambers  in  the  Temple,  he  was  at  his  Club,  or  away 
for  week-ends  at  golf  resorts  ;  while  Anne  was  out 
morning,  noon,  and  night.  Anne  had  promised  to 


ANNE  263 

help  her  with  the  redeeoration  of  Crane  Hall.  Fran- 
cesca  had  anticipated  a  pleasant  orgy  of  shopping. 
Anne's  taste  was  impeccable,  and  she  knew  all  the 
London  shops  as  well  as  Francesca  knew  the  trees 
in  her  own  garden  ;  but  when  the  time  came  to  choose 
chintzes  and  curtains  Anne  was  too  busy  to  spare 
the  days ;  she  had  been  given  her  first  commission 
on  a  large  scale,  to  design  the  dresses  and  draperies 
for  a  forthcoming  ballet.  It  was  going  to  be  the 
musical,  dramatic,  and  literary  sensation  of  the 
season,  unless  its  promoters  were  prophesying  more 
hopefully  than  the  merits  of  the  production  war- 
ranted. The  financier  who  had  been  induced  to  back 
the  experiment  had  been  introduced  to  Anne,  and, 
admiring  her  taste,  and  his  own  taste  in  discernment, 
stipulated  that  the  design  should  be  entrusted  to  her. 
Anne  won  the  confidence  of  everyone  concerned  by 
demanding  a  large  price  for  undertaking  the  work, 
and  concealed  her  intense  nervousness  with  an  air 
of  calm  assurance  that  deceived  and  amazed  her 
friends  and  relations.  So  as  Phil  was  the  only 
member  of  the  family  who  was  prepared  to  take  any 
active  part  in  her  labours,  Francesca  shopped  alone. 
Anne  was  either  ransacking  London  for  materials, 
or  studying  colours  in  picture  galleries,  or  looking  up 
ancient  costumes  in  museums  and  libraries,  when 
she  wasn't  locked  in  her  studio  experimenting,  and 
testing  the  effects  of  different  lights  on  shades  and 
fabrics. 

At  Easter,  Phil  went  to  spend  his  holiday  with 
Francesca  at  Crane  Hall.  She  had  expected  Gilbert 
and  Anne,  and  had  prepared  their  rooms  for  them, 
but  the  child  came  alone  with  his  nurse.  Anne 
telegraphed  to  say  she  was  detained  and  hoped  to 


264  ANNE 

come  later.  Gilbert  wrote  to  say  he  was  spending 
a  few  days  golfing  at  Sheringham  with  friends  and 
wouldn't  reach  her  as  soon  as  he  anticipated.  Fran- 
cesca  tried  to  glean  compensation  for  her  disappoint- 
ment from  Phil's  undiluted  companionship  ;  but  the 
child  was  tired  after  his  journey,  and  languid,  he  left 
his  hostess  plenty  of  leisure  that  first  afternoon  to 
reflect  with  an  irritated  cynicism  that  Gilbert  and 
Anne  were  selfish.  "  I'm  useful  in  taking  Phil  off 
their  hands,  and  that  is  all  I'm  worth  to  either  of 
them  .  .  ."  ran  her  thoughts.  She  attempted  to 
enliven  the  situation  by  providing  an  inordinately 
luxurious  tea,  but  the  little  boy  wasn't  hungry.  She 
looked  round  the  table  at  the  scones  and  strawberry 
jam,  the  seed  cake  and  lemon  biscuits,  and  tried  to 
ward  off  this  fresh  disappointment  by  saying  : 

"  Isn't  there  anything  you'd  like,  darling  ?  " 

"  I  think  I'd  like  to  come  and  sit  on  your  lap," 
said  Phil. 

Francesca  picked  him  up,  and  her  heart  beat 
more  quickly  as  she  sat  down  with  him  in  an  arm- 
chair by  the  fire. 

"  He  must  be  ill,"  was  her  apprehension.  He 
disowned  a  sore  throat  or  a  pain  inside,  but  admitted 
a  headache,  and  Francesca,  with  a  foreboding  of 
evil,  sent  for  the  doctor.  Phil  began  to  take  a  drowsy 
interest  in  himself. 

**  I  don't  think  it  can  be  measles  because  I've  had 
them.  And  I've  had  chicken-pox  :  and  I  haven't 
got  a  pain  in  my  jaws  so  it  can't  be  mumps  ;  and  it 
isn't  whooping-cough.  It  might  be  scarlet  fever  or 
smallpox." 

"  Don't  suggest  anything  like  that,  sweetheart." 

"  What  other  illnesses  can  boys  get  ?  " 


ANNE  265 

"  We'll  hope  you're  not  going  to  get  any  illness," 
said  Francesca  with  the  artificial  sanguine  composure 
the  right-minded  keep  in  stock  for  use  with  children 
and  invalids. 

"I  feel  illnessy,"  said  Phil.  "I  think  perhaps 
you'd  better  put  me  to  bed.  And  I  should  like  you 
to  carry  me  upstairs." 

Francesca  hoped  he  was  dramatising  the  situation 
because  he  was  well  enough  to  enjoy  a  fuss  being 
made  of  him ;  but  his  headache  was  evidently 
acute.  The  doctor  came  while  Francesca  was  at 
dinner.  She  went  upstairs  with  him,  talking  cheer- 
ful platitudes. 

"  Phil  isn't  well.  I  dare  say  I'm  fussy,  but  you 
know  what  it  is  with  other  people's  children,  and 
you  never  do  know  what  a  child  is  sickening 
for." 

The  doctor  went  into  the  room  with  a  breezy, 
"  Well,  my  little  man,  what  have  you  brought  us 
down  from  London  ?  " 

Phil  didn't  answer :  he  was  tossing  with  half- 
shut  eyes  in  a  paroxysm  of  dreadful  restfulness.  The 
doctor's  expression  changed.  He  took  the  little 
boy's  temperature,  felt  his  pulse,  lifted  up  his  eyelid 
and  looked  in  his  eye,  holding  a  candle  aslant  so  that 
it  dropped  melted  wax  on  the  sheet.  Francesca's 
housewifely  eye  noticed  this  with  an  annoyance  at 
men's  clumsiness,  just  as  the  doctor  turned  to  her, 
and  said  in  a  low  shocked  voice  :  "  This  is  menin- 
gitis." Then  he  apologised  for  his  abruptness  as 
Francesca  turned  very  white. 

"  What's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  We'll  try  and  pull  him  through.  Better  send  for 
his  mother." 


266  ANNE 

Francesca  had  had  the  telephone  installed.  She 
got  a  trunk  call  through  to  Gilbert's  hotel  at  Shering- 
ham,  and  left  a  message  for  him ;  he  was  out :  and 
then  with  some  difficulty  she  got  on  to  Anne  at 
Chelsea.  It  was  late  and  Anne  had  just  gone  to 
bed,  she  sounded  sleepy. 

"  Yes,  it  is  me,  Anne.  What  on  earth  is  it,  Fran- 
cesca ?  Phil  ill  ?  What  is  it  ?  I  can't  hear.  Appen- 
dicitis ?  Nonsense,  he  can't  have  that,  he's  had  it 
out.  Oh,  meningitis  !  Is  it  serious  ?  " 

Francesca's  voice  shook  as  she  replied  :  "  It  is 
for  little  babies,  but  Phil  is  strong.  The  doctor  is 
hopeful,  but  you'd  better  come  down  to-morrow." 

"  I  shall  come  at  once  of  course." 

"  There's  no  train  till  the  morning,  my  dear,  but 
I  had  to  let  you  know.  He's  not  in  pain,  poor  little 
boy.  He  has  a  very  high  temperature,  and  is  being 
kept  under  morphia." 

"  Is  that  good  or  bad  ?  "  came  Anne's  anxious 
voice,  then  they  were  cut  off. 

"  Bless  the  child,  good  or  bad  1  She  might  be 
Phil's  age,"  Francesca  said  to  herself  as  she  put  up 
the  receiver  and  returned  to  the  sick-room.  The 
doctor  stayed  on  and  they  watched  Phil  all  night. 
At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  Gilbert  arrived,  having 
motored  over  from  Sheringham.  He  seemed  surprised 
and  alarmed  to  find  Francesca  up. 

"  Oughtn't  you  to  have  a  hospital  nurse  ?  " 

"  There's  been  no  time  to  get  one.  One  is  coming 
in  the  morning.  I've  telephoned  to  Anne,  but  if  she 
catches  the  first  train  she  can't  be  here  till  nearly 
midday." 

However,  at  six  o'clock  Anne  arrived,  having 
walked  from  the  station.  She  had  travelled  on  a 


ANNE  267 

newspaper  train  part  of  the  way,  and  then  on  a 
special. 

"  I  rang  up  Mr.  Ackroyd,  he  arranged  it  for  me 
somehow,"  she  said  impatiently,  when  questioned  in 
the  hall :  and  Francesca  threw  off  the  despair  that 
was  clutching  her  to  wait  upon  Anne.  The  doctor 
admitted  her  to  Phil's  room.  She  paused  on  the 
threshold. 

"  Is  he  asleep  ?    I  mustn't  wake  him." 
"  You  won't  disturb  him — he's  very  ill." 
"  He's  very  strong,"  whispered  Anne  with  desperate 
hopefulness. 

But  the  little  boy  was  not  strong  enough  to  resist 
the  Angel  of  Death.  He  lay  unconscious  for  two  days, 
and  then  opened  his  big  grey  eyes  and  looked  at  Anne 
with  a  sleepy  smile  of  recognition.  Then  he  turned 
his  head.  Gilbert  and  Francesca  were  standing  at 
the  end  of  his  bed.  He  stared  past  them,  at  the 
window ;  his  little  thin  white  face  lit  up  with  his 
own  cheerful  grin. 

"  Hullo,  Mummy  !  "   he  said.    "  What  a  lark  !  " 
Then  he  lay  very  still  and  silent,  so  still  that  the 
nurse  by  his  bedside  summoned  the  doctor  from  the 
next  room.    The  doctor  touched  the  little  wrist,  then 
he  laid  his  hand  gently  on  Anne's  shoulder. 

"  It's  all  over,"  he  said  huskily.  "  He's  been 
spared  a  lot  of  suffering." 

Francesca's  first  thought  was  for  Anne ;  she  led 
her  away  and  implored  her  to  be  brave  as  she  wept 
over  her  ;  but  Anne  bore  herself  with  a  courage  that 
seemed  compounded  of  indignant  incredulity  and  an 
indomitable  will.  Gilbert  broke  down,  but  Anne 
seemed  to  draw  strength  out  of  strange  depths  in 
her  being,  together  with  some  anger  with  the  doctors 


268  ANNE 

for  letting  Phil  die,  and  a  rebellious  conviction  that 
somehow  he  could  have  been  saved  if  only  somebody 
had  had  more  sense  and  more  skill.  While  Gilbert 
and  Francesca  found  comfort  in  reflecting  that 
everything  that  science  and  devotion  could  do  for 
the  child  had  been  done,  Anne  regarded  Phil  as  the 
victim  of  a  wanton  outrage. 

Juliet  Dalliac  came  down  for  the  funeral  and  took 
Anne  in  her  arms  and  cried  bitterly  with  her  cheek 
against  Anne's  hair. 

"  At  least  the  poor  little  darling  is  safe  and  happy 
in  Heaven,"  she  sobbed. 

"I  can't  feel  like  that,"  said  Anne.  "I'm  not 
sure  I  believe  in  Heaven,  anyway  you  wouldn't  want 
any  of  your  children  there.  And  if  good  people  are 
right  and  there  is  such  a  place,  I  can't  think  of  Phil 
there.  He  was  too  naughty  to  be  really  happy  and 
safe  in  a  Heaven." 

Juliet  said  to  Francesca  that  she  thought  Anne 
was  overstrained. 

Anne  sought  Marian  Wyndham,  who  had  come 
down  by  the  same  train  and  was  pacing  up  and 
down  the  garden  with  her  hands  in  her  pockets,  a 
cigarette  between  her  lips,  and  tears  in  her  kind 
grey  eyes. 

"  I've  shocked  Juliet  Dalliac  by  refusing  to  be 
consoled  at  the  ludicrous  idea  of  my  dear  naughty 
little  Phil  in  her  pious  Heaven,"  she  declared  with  a 
hard,  defiant,  valiant  little  smile  on  her  white  face. 
"  If  there  were  a  Heaven  he'd  simply  hate  it." 

Marian  put  her  arm  through  Anne's. 

"I  suppose  you've  been  brought  up  on  a  Calvinistic 
Heaven,  so  was  I.  I  fancy  children  are  wiser. 
They've  no  dread  of  Heaven.  I  believe  they're  the 


ANNE  269 

only  little  souls  who'll  be  really  at  home  there. 
We've  made  '  of  such  are  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  ' 
such  a  hackneyed  phrase  that  it  has  become  an 
uncomforting  platitude,  but  I  don't  find  it  difficult 
to  believe.  God  made  children,  and  if  He  makes 
them  He'll  know  all  there  is  to  know  about  them. 
He  knows  they're  not  saints.  I  expect  Heaven  is 
a  very  human  place  really." 

But  neither  Marian,  with  her  philosophical  specula- 
tion, nor  Juliet  Dalliac  with  her  sympathy,  comforted 
Anne.  Francesca,  in  the  midst  of  her  own  grief  for 
the  child  she  had  loved  as  her  own,  tried  to  assuage 
her  brother's  and  Anne's,  and  to  find  some  consola- 
tion in  the  hope  that  the  sorrow  might  breach  the 
distance  between  them.  In  her  great  desire  that 
Gilbert  and  Anne  might  be  drawn  together  she 
manoeuvred  them  both  into  her  sitting-room,  and 
left  them  alone.  Gilbert  sat  in  the  arm-chair  with 
his  head  in  his  hands.  Anne  went  to  the  window- 
seat,  and  looked  out  at  the  yellow  butterflies  dancing 
over  a  bed  of  wallflowers.  Presently,  to  break  a  long 
silence  that  jarred  on  her  nerves,  Anne  said  : 

"  Thank  God,  we  haven't  any  more  children." 

This  speech  grated  on  Gilbert's  emotions. 

"  It's  an  awful  thing  to  lose  an  only  son,"  he  said  : 
it  was  the  only  thing  he  could  think  of  to  say,  and 
he  felt  he  had  to  exert  himself  to  say  something. 

"  We  must  try  not  to  think  of  it,"  said  Anne. 
"  Grieving  won't  bring  him  back." 

They  were  both  worn  out  with  watching  and 
anxiety  and  sorrow ;  they  were  both  nervous.  It 
was  a  strategic  mistake  of  Francesca  to  throw  them 
together  at  the  moment.  They  were  both  absorbed 
in  their  own  grief,  and  they  thought  each  other 


270  ANNE 

unsympathetic.  Anne  was  quite  aware  of  Francesca's 
aspirations,  and  the  conventional  notion  that  in  the 
depths  of  their  sorrow  they  should  find  peace  and 
an  artificial  reconciliation  did  not  appeal  to  her. 
She  was  on  her  guard  against  sentimental  insincerity  ; 
ready  to  ward  off  any  attempt  of  Gilbert  to  make 
capital  out  of  the  situation :  she  felt  she  should 
despise  him  if  he  tried  to  do  that.  And  Gilbert 
was  keenly  conscious  of  Anne's  embarrassment.  He 
understood  her  well  enough  to  know  what  was 
passing  in  her  mind.  He  was  hurt  that  she  should 
feel  like  that,  he  attributed  it  to  her  heartlessness, 
when  it  was  really  due  to  her  nervousness.  To 
spare  her  further  uneasiness,  he  rose  and  went 
towards  the  door.  He  paused  as  he  passed  the  window 
and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Anne — when  Phil  was  ill  last  year,  we  had  a  row 
over  the  operation.  I'm  sorry.  I  know  now  what 
you  went  through.  I  oughtn't  to  have — to  have 
blown  you  up  like  that." 

Anne  was  not  in  the  mood  for  recriminations  nor 
reminiscences.  She  wished  Gilbert  hadn't  opened  the 
subject.  It  was  too  late :  she  felt  it  didn't  matter. 
He  passed  on  without  giving  her  time  to  decide  how 
to  receive  his  apology.  He  didn't  want  to  give  her 
another  chance  of  widening  the  breach  between 
them  by  repulsing  him.  That  hurt  her  too.  She 
told  herself  that  he  had  apologised  to  soothe  his  own 
conscience,  not  her  pain  ;  that  if  he  had  cared  for 
her  he  would  have  said  more.  Quite  illogically, 
because  he  had  divined  her  wish  and  left  her  alone 
she  resented  it ;  for  the  fulfilment  brought  her  no 
sort  of  satisfaction,  and  he  had  deprived  her  of  the 
chance  of  accepting  his  overture  graciously.  But 


ANNE  271 

though  the  effort  did  not  draw  them  nearer  together 
it  did  infuse  a  new  lenitude  into  their  relations.  They 
looked  at  each  other  across  the  gulf  between  them 
with  a  distant  gentleness. 


CHAPTER   XX 

AFTER  Phil's  death  all  the  maternal  affection  Fran- 
cesca  had  lavished  on  the  little  boy  reverted  to 
Anne  ;  and  Anne  did  not  seem  to  want  it,  she  seemed 
to  shrink  from  all  emotional  experience  as  a  scalded 
child  from  hot  water.  She  made  new  interests  in 
her  life,  made  new  friends  easily,  and  not  all  her  new 
friends  commended  themselves  to  Francesca's  judg- 
ment. 

Anne's  success  astonished  Francesca :  it  was  in- 
credible to  her  that  anyone  could  take  her  little 
sister-in-law's  work  as  seriously  as  she  took  it  herself. 
It  was  difficult  for  her  to  think  of  Anne's  eternal 
preoccupation  over  the  superficialities  of  fashion 
with  approval,  or  even  patience,  yet  impossible  not 
to  regard  the  financial  results  with  respect.  Her 
mind  was  divided  between  her  loyalty  to  Anne, 
which  tempted  her  to  smile  upon  her  extravagances, 
and  her  loyalty  to  somewhat  rigid  principles  which 
condemned  such  frivolous  activities  as  waste  of  time 
and  talent.  Her  vision  of  Gilbert  and  Anne  being 
drawn  nearer  together  by  their  sorrow  proved  to  be 
only  a  mirage  she  had  conjured  up  in  her  own  brain 
to  fill  the  dreary  emptiness  left  in  her  own  future. 
Her  heart  ached  for  both  of  them,  but  they  seemed 
to  have  each  decided  to  sail  different  ships,  and 
Francesca  watched  them  steering  their  own  course, 

272 


ANNE  273 

getting  caught  in  different  currents  that  took  them 
farther  and  farther  apart.  She  admired  and  envied 
the  indomitable  courage  with  which  Anne  fought  her 
grief  with  hard  work,  not  allowing  herself  to  look 
back  or  brood  despondently,  but  she  deplored  the 
form  the  hard  work  took.  She  confided  her  mis- 
givings to  Marian  Wyndham,  whom  she  met  one 
afternoon  in  Anne's  studio,  where  some  finished 
sketches  were  on  view. 

"  I  suppose  I'm  an  illogical  Philistine,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  don't  like  these  things  Anne  does  ;  though 
my  common  sense  tells  me  that  if  people  will  pay 
ten  guineas  to  possess  a  thing  like  that  I  ought  to  be 
reconciled  to  her  doing  it." 

The  thing  was  an  original  colour-drawing  for  one 
of  the  figures  from  the  Assyrian  Ballet,  which  had  been 
a  great  success.  Anne  had  reaped  her  share  of  adver- 
tisement. The  dresses  were  original  and  daring : 
incorrect,  according  to  some  supercilious  critics, 
"  quite  correct  enough  for  their  purpose,"  according 
to  an  amused  Assyriologist,  whom  Anne  had  beguiled 
into  defending  her  in  a  bantering  correspondence  in 
the  Press. 

Marian,  with  her  shabby  hat  on  the  back  of  her 
untidy  fair  head,  surveyed  the  sketches  with  a  critical 
eye. 

"  Anne's  work  is  uncommonly  clever  in  its  way. 
It  is  so  cheerful  and  gay,  and  .  .  .  and  cheeky." 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  all  means,"  complained 
Francesca.  "  And  I've  a  feeling  that  if  I  did  know 
I  shouldn't  like  it." 

"  They  don't  mean  anything,  any  more  than 
Anne's  flirtations  mean  anything.  They  just  happen 
because  she'd  be  bored  if  they  didn't.  You  might 


274  ANNE 

just  as  well  criticise  the  mediaeval  illuminators  who 
painted  rabbits  and  birds  and  butterflies  in  the 
borders  of  missals  and  breviaries.  They've  nothing 
to  do  with  the  text,  they  are  there  because  it  pleased 
the  artist  to  put  them  there.  That  is  why  they  are 
so  perfectly  satisfying.  These  delicious  absurdities 
of  Anne's  are  in  the  same  category.  I  couldn't  paint 
these  flighty  little  demoniacal  beings  in  mad  clothes 
to  save  my  life.  And  I  should  feel  a  fool  in  her 
high-heeled  shoes  and  silk  stockings." 

Marian  smiled  benignly  upon  Anne,  who  was 
absorbed  in  a  mild  flirtation  with  a  dealer  at  the 
other  end  of  fche  room. 

"  Bless  her,  I've  no  doubt  she's  an  awful  hand- 
ful !  " 

"  The  worst  of  it  is  she  isn't,"  sighed  Francesca. 
"  A  *  handful '  implies  at  least  a  restraining  hand, 
and  that  is  just  what  nobody  has  where  Anne  is 
concerned." 

Francesca  deliberately  lingered  till  everyone  else 
had  gone.  She  imagined  Anne  would  return  with 
her  to  Chelsea,  but  Anne  had  other  plans.  She  was 
dining  with  Austin  Heddle. 

"  That  man  !  "  exclaimed  Francesca. 

"  He  amuses  me,"  explained  Anne  :  she  appeared 
to  think  that  settled  it. 

"  I've  just  heard  that  John  is  seriously  ill  with 
rheumatic  fever,"  said  Francesca.  The  mischievous 
smile  died  on  Anne's  lips. 

"  Will  he  die  too  ?  "  she  cried  almost  impatiently. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  it  kills  people." 

"  I'll  telegraph  to  him,  and  say  how  sorry  I  am." 

"  You  know  he's  not  allowed  letters  except  .  .  ." 

"  Telegrams  aren't  letters.    I'll  send  it  care  of  the 


ANNE  275 

Governor,  and  unless  he's  a  beast  he'll  let  him  have 
it.  Come  with  me  to  the  post  office." 

Anne  wrote  out  a  long  telegram  that  cost  her 
fourteen  shillings.  Francesca  made  an  almost 
mechanical  frugal  remonstrance. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Anne.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
bother  about  cutting  out  halfpennies  when  poor 
John  is  so  ill.  Besides,  it  may  amuse  him." 

"  You're  so  erratic.  You  haven't  troubled  to  write 
to  him  once  since  he's  been  there,  and  now,  look  at 
you!" 

"  What  is  the  use  of  writing  letters  to  a  man  in 
hell  ?  " 

"  Anne  dear  !  " 

"  Well,  being  in  prison  must  be  hell.  It  is  a  rotten 
world.  Sometimes  I'm  glad  Phil  is  safe  out  of  it  all. 
At  least  people  can't  be  unjust  to  him  and  make  him 
miserable,  and  at  least  he  can't  grow  up  into  a  man 
and  be  beastly  himself  and  make  other  people 
miserable." 

"  You're  tired,  child.  Come  home  to  dinner,  and 
send  another  wire  to  Mr.  Heddle  to  say  you  can't 
come." 

"  I  shan't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  I'm  not  tired. 
I'm  only  not  a  child  !  You're  always  wanting  me 
to  do,  or  say,  or  be,  something  different." 

Anne's  voice  was  vibrant  with  nervous  impatience. 
Francesca  was  not  prepared  to  quarrel  in  the  post 
office.  She  went  home  in  a  despondent  mood. 
Having  failed  to  rouse  in  Anne  anything  but  an- 
tagonism, she  made  a  conscientious  effort  to  produce 
a  more  satisfactory  result  by  experimenting  on 
Gilbert. 

"  Anne  is  dining  with  Austin  Heddle." 


276  ANNE 

"  Is  she  ?  " 

"  Yes.    I  do  so  dislike  that  man." 

"  He  is  an  unmitigated  bounder ;  an  affected 
brute  too.  1  don't  know  how  Anne  can  stick  him." 

"  Gilbert,  do  you  think  it  wise  to  let  Anne  dine  out 
alone  with  unmitigated  bounders  ?  She  is  so  young 
and  so  very  attractive." 

"  Anne  is  quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself." 

"  Of  course  it  is  very  nice  that  you  have  such 
infinite  trust  in  her,  but  don't  you  think  it  looks  as 
if  you  didn't  care  about  her  reputation  ?  " 

"  Never  you  fear,  she'll  soon  be  tired  of  him.  All 
Anne  cares  about  is  getting  her  own  way  and  having 
a  good  time.  She  isn't  the  type  to  lose  her  head  over  a 
man  like  Heddle,  or  any  other  man  if  it  conies  to  that." 

"  Perhaps  not,  unless  she  happened  to  lose  her 
heart  first." 

"  You  may  leave  Anne's  heart  out  of  your  calcu- 
lations. I  don't  say  she  hasn't  got  one  somewhere. 
But  she  takes  jolly  good  care  of  it,  and  with  the 
small  amount  of  work  it  gets,  and  the  restful  life  she 
leads  it,  it  will  last  her  all  her  time.  She  has  one  of 
those  cold,  calculating  temperaments  that  keep 
women  out  of  mischief." 

"  All  I  know  is  that  she  usen't  to  be  such  a  little 
beast." 

"  She  isn't  a  little  beast,  she's  a  very  pretty,  fas- 
cinating young  woman,  and  she  jolly  well  knows  it, 
and  gets  the  most  she  can  out  of  it ;  and  as  long  as 
she  can  get  whatever  she  happens  to  want  out  of 
anyone  by  smiling  at  them  she'll  continue  to  smile, 
and  that's  all  they  will  get  out  of  it.  And  if  any- 
one is  such  a  blamed  fool  as  to  play  into  her  hands 
I  don't  blame  her ;  but  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to 


ANNE  277 

worry  about  her,  and  I'd  advise  you  not  to  either. 
Whatever  happens  to  anybody  else,  Anne  will  turn 
up  smiling." 

Francesca  was  silenced,  and  went  unhappily  to 
bed.  The  next  day  she  returned  to  Crane  Hall,  and 
tried  to  fill  her  life  with  various  interests,  with  local 
organisations,  the  financial  affairs  of  the  Warneford 
Children's  Hospital,  the  cultivation  of  her  garden, 
and  the  social  administration  of  the  village.  The 
multitudinous  activities  took  up  her  time  and  filled 
her  life,  and  she  could  always  fill  her  house  with 
friends  and  acquaintances ;  but  the  innermost 
citadel  of  her  heart  was  empty.  However  much  she 
disapproved  of  Anne,  she  had  to  acknowledge  to 
herself  that  she  possessed  the  quality  of  making 
more  admirable  people  seem  rather  dull ;  it  was 
unfair,  but  there  it  was.  She  was  like  some  strange 
exotic  flavour  that,  once  a  taste  for  it  was  acquired, 
made  other  wine  seem  flat  or  insipid.  You  wanted 
to  shake  her,  not  with  any  hope  of  shaking  away 
faults,  but  with  the  motive  with  which  one  shakes 
up  a  kaleidoscope. 

With  the  flowers  Francesca  laid  always  on  Phil's 
little  grave  she  laid  her  dreams  and  regrets  for  her 
own  widowed  childlessness.  The  fidelity  to  the 
memory  of  the  adored  husband  of  her  girlhood  had 
brought  her  a  proud  reticent  serenity  of  soul ;  for 
human  companionship  she  had  counted  on  Gilbert, 
then  on  Anne,  and  on  Phil.  Now,  she  moved  about 
the  house  and  garden  mentally  peopling  it  with  the 
little  children  the  old  rooms,  the  old  trees,  seemed  to 
be  there  for — Gilbert  and  Anne's  children.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  be  wasted.  The  roses  climbed  up 
and  looked  in  at  the  barred  wide  windows,  where  no 


278  ANNE 

little  rosy  faces  looked  out.  The  wide  smooth  lawns 
seemed  empty.  Sometimes  she  was  sad,  and  some- 
times impatient.  But  in  every  human  mind  lurks  a 
gambler.  We  take  the  most  absurd  chances,  or  make 
the  most  amazing  calculations,  and  endure  periods 
of  depression  that  do  not  degenerate  into  despair 
simply  because  of  the  gambler's  inveterate  cheerful 
assumption  that  something  may  rescue  us,  even  by 
diverting  the  laws  of  the  universe  if  necessary.  The 
most  unselfish  of  mortals  are  egoists  in  their  demands 
on  whatever  gods  they  worship.  Half  unconsciously, 
Francesca  looked  forward  to  John  Halliday's  release 
from  prison,  because  he  might  be  able  to  induce 
Anne  to  modify  her  conduct.  At  least  he  had  been 
able  to  extract  a  promise  from  Anne  not  to  renew  her 
Paris  experiment.  She  began  to  count  the  months 
that  would  bring  the  end  of  his  sentence,  and  to 
make  detailed  plans  for  his  benefit.  She  would 
invite  him  to  Crane  Hall,  and  together  they  would 
talk  out  the  problem  Anne  presented,  and  discuss 
ways  and  means  of  dealing  with  her.  But  it  happened 
that  when  John  came  out  of  prison  Francesca  was 
in  Edinburgh,  for  he  was  released  unexpectedly  for 
reasons  of  ill-health.  It  was  Juliet  Dalliac  who  met 
him  at  the  station  and  drove  him  back  with  her  to 
Brooke  Street.  Her  kind  heart  was  shocked  by  his 
appearance.  He  was  thin  and  bent,  and  he  looked 
twenty  years  older.  Her  brown  eyes  filled  with  tears 
as  she  greeted  him. 

"  I  shall  be  all  right  soon,"  he  explained.  "  I  had 
rheumatic  fever  pretty  badly  ;  pulls  one  down.  It 
is  awfully  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Dalliac,  but  I  can't  come 
back  with  you,  you  know,  or  see  people,  I'm  a  ticket- 
of-leave." 


ANNE  279 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Juliet  gently.  "  William 
or  Lawrence  will  see  the  Home  Secretary,  and  get  it 
altered  to  a  pardon.  Of  course  you  must  come  and 
be  taken  care  of  for  a  little  while.  I'm  all  alone 
with  the  children.  You  shall  see  nobody,  if  you  don't 
want  to." 

"  I'm  feeling  a  bit  dazed,"  he  explained  when  he 
was  having  tea  in  the  library,  numbed  with  the  strange 
realisation  of  the  little  details  of  his  liberty.  He  held 
the  Worcester  china  teacup  clumsily,  it  seemed  so  ab- 
surdly light  and  fragile,  like  a  doll's  cup ;  and  the  deep- 
cushioned  arm-chair  was  so  fantastically  luxurious. 

"  How  is  everybody  ?  "  he  enquired  shyly. 

"  Very  well.  My  husband  will  be  in  presently. 
And  Anne  is  in  Cornwall  motoring  with  the  Freynes." 

"  Is  she  all  right  ?  " 

"  She  was  very  well  when  I  saw  her  last.  Another 
cup  of  tea  ?  Oh,  here  come  the  children.  Will  they 
bother  you  ?  " 

"  Rather  not,"  said  John. 

Three  demure  little  girls  in  white  frocks  came  in, 
followed  by  a  nurse  carrying  a  baby. 

"  You've  not  seen  my  youngest  of  course,"  said 
Juliet.  *'  Anne's  goddaughter,  Helen  Elizabeth. 
She  is  nine  months,  and  ought  to  have  been  a  little 
boy,  only  she  is  so  sweet  I  shouldn't  have  the  heart 
to  change  her." 

"  May  I  hold  her  ?  "  asked  John.  "  Will  she  mind  ? 
You  can't  think  how  I've  missed  seeing  children." 

Helen  Elizabeth  was  transferred  to  John's  knee. 
He  held  her  awkwardly  enough,  crumpling  her  crisp 
white  frock,  but  with  a  tenderness  that  the  baby 
appreciated,  for  she  laughed  at  him,  and  patted  his 
thin  grey  face  with  a  fat  hand,  and  made  soft  con- 


280  ANNE 

tented  noises  like  a  young  wood-pigeon.  Juliet  was 
so  touched  by  the  way  his  rough,  hardened  fingers 
caressed  the  soft  downy  curls  that  she  forebore  to 
interfere  when  he  began  to  feed  the  baby  with  crumbs 
of  bread  and  butter.  The  embarrassment  in  the  air 
— for  there  had  been  embarrassment — melted  away. 
When  William  Dalliac  came  home,  Juliet  held  up  a 
warning  finger. 

"  Hush !  " 

The  baby  was  fast  asleep  in  John's  arms,  and  John 
was  asleep  too. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

ANNE  did  not  hear  of  John's  release  until  she  returned 
to  London.  By  that  time  he  was  a  free  man,  William 
Dalliac  had  presented  his  case  to  the  Home  Office 
and  had  procured  him  a  free  pardon.  He  had  declined 
the  Dalliacs'  invitation  to  stay  with  them  until  he 
was  strong  enough  for  work.  He  found  that  his 
rooms  in  the  Euston  Road  were  vacant  and  he  took 
them  again.  And  there  Anne  found  him  one  hot 
afternoon  in  July.  She  had  telegraphed  to  say  she 
was  coming.  He  had  prepared  tea  for  her  on  the 
rickety  table  in  the  dingy,  shabby  little  sitting-room 
on  the  first  floor. 

"  John  !    How  ill  you  look  !  " 

He  laughed  at  her  horrified  face. 

"  You  don't  know  how  well  I  feel ! — to  be  out ! 
— back  here  again  ! — having  you  come  to  tea  with 
me  ! — Anne,  it  is  like  being  in  Heaven." 

"  Poor  John  !  Tell  me  all  about  it — or  is  it  too 
dreadful  to  speak  about  ?  " 

"  Lord  no  1  it  wasn't  so  dreadful — at  first  of 
course  I  felt  horribly  down — but  on  the  whole  they 
were  very  decent  to  me,  the  officials  you  know — 
awfully  kind  when  I  was  so  ill — I'm  not  pretending 
I  enjoyed  it,  or  that  I  don't  want  to  forget  it  all  as 
speedily  as  possible.  .  .  ." 

"  Then  don't  talk  about  it.  .  .  ." 


282  ANNE 

*'  It  is  like  a  mental  and  spiritual  attack  of  rheu- 
matic fever — hurts,  you  know.  Let's  talk  about 
other  things.  .  .  .  But  first,  Anne  dear,  I  want  to 
tell  you  I'd  have  gone  through  it  all  again,  indefi- 
nitely, to  have  spared  you  your  sorrow  about 
Phil.  .  .  ." 

Anne's  lips  trembled. 

"  I  know,"  she  said.  "  John — I'm  getting  used 
to  the  idea  now.  At  first  I  really  used  to  catch 
myself  hoping  that  he'd  be  very  naughty  and  that 
they'd  send  him  back — just  as  if  he'd  gone  to  school." 
She  caught  her  breath  with  a  little  sob.  Then  she 
sat  down  and  looked  at  John  with  a  growing  horror 
in  her  eyes — at  the  lines  of  pain  in  his  aged  grey 
face,  his  sunken  eyes,  his  thin  hands.  She  glanced 
around  the  hot,  uncomfortable  little  room. 

"  You  can't  stay  here  !  You're  not  well  enough. 
You  must  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  all  right.  I'm  going  away  to  Ireland  for  a 
bit.  I'm  not  ill  now.  Of  course  I'm  not  exactly 
a  Hercules  yet — they  don't  let  you  out  of  gaol  for 
reasons  of  health  if  you  are.  But  don't  let's  talk 
about  my  aches  and  pains.  There  are  such  tons  of 
things  I  want  to  tell  you  and  ask  you.  It  is  good 
enough  to  be  here,  watching  you  pour  out  tea.  Tell 
me  all  your  news  first." 

"  I  haven't  much.  Everything  is  much  the  same. 
Francesca  is  in  Edinburgh,  comes  back  in  a  day  or 
two.  You've  seen  Gilbert ;  and  I'm  flourishing." 

"  How's  the  work  ?  " 

"  Oh — I've  been  doing  quite  well.  I'm  rather  the 
fashion." 

"  Gilbert  said  you  were  a  success." 

The  conversation  dropped  dead.    John  was  leaning 


ANNE  283 

back  in   his   chair  smiling  happily   as   he  watched 
Anne. 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Shall  I  go  ?  " 
"  Go !  why  you've  only  just  come — I'm  only  just 
beginning  to  realise  you.  Let  me  stare  at  you  in 
comfort :  it  is  so  long  since  I've  seen  pretty  clothes 
— and  they're  all  a  different  shape  since  I  last  saw 
them." 

"  Why  and  when  are  you  going  to  Ireland  ?  " 
"I  go  to-morrow;  the  'why'  of  it  is  rather 
more  complicated — I'll  tell  you — I  want  to  tell  you, 
only  there  is  so  much  that  I  don't  know  where  to 
begin.  There  was  an  Irish  padre  who  was  awfully 
kind  when  I  was  ill — he's  given  me  the  address  of 
an  inn  to  go  to.  I  wasn't  his  job  really,  because 
I  was  entered  as  Church  of  England,  but  before  the 
trial  I  met  an  old  priest,  Father  Meredith  ;  this  man 
was  a  friend  of  his — he  asked  him  to  do  what  he 
could  for  me." 

"  John,  what  did  you  do  all  the  time  ?  " 
"  They  put  me  on  to  the  printing — there's  a  lot 
of  printing  done  at  Parkhurst :  and  I  said  that  was 
my  line.  I  was  quite  useful — and  then  I  thought 
a  lot.  I  had  more  time  for  thinking  than  I've  ever 
had  before." 

"  That  must  have  been  the  worst  part — it  would 
have  driven  me  mad  thinking  how  unjust  it  all  was." 
"  I  dare  say  it  would  have  driven  me  mad  if  I'd 
concentrated  on  that,  it  doesn't  work — to  go  on 
thinking  about  oneself  and  one's  own  troubles.  It 
just  leads  one's  brain  round  in  circles,  and  after  a 
bit  it  isn't  even  interesting." 

"  Then  what  did  you  think  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  everything  in  Heaven  or  earth  !    I  thought 


284  ANNE 

of  you,  and  everyone  I  knew  and  cared  for,  and  I 
thought  about  life,  and  death,  and  truth,  and  the 
meaning  of  the  universe,  and  about  God — and 
everything  I'd  ever  read  or  felt.  I've  learnt  a  lot 
in  prison.  I  used  to  be  rather  attracted  by  the 
modern  craze  of  '  toleration,'  for  condoning  sin — 
preventing  it  if  possible,  if  not,  regarding  it  with 
great  tenderness.  I've  heard  awfully  clever  men 
and  women  argue  as  if  sin  were  a  sort  of  disease  that 
could  be  cured  or  prevented  by  drugs,  as  if  there 
were  no  spirit  of  evil  to  be  fought.  I  know  better  now. 
I've  seen  men  who  have  made  themselves  into  human 
devils  by  sin.  Sin  isn't  just  a  vacuum  caused  in 
the  human  soul  by  the  absence  of  mild  virtues,  it 
is  terrifying  filthy  cruelty.  Political  philanthropists 
talk  as  if  sin  could  be  cured  by  dosing  sinners  with 
good  wages  and  cheap  amusements  and  physical 
comfort — awful  rot  you  know.  I  tried  to  straighten 
everything  out,  all  the  tangled  threads  of  the  thoughts 
and  dreams  and  perplexities,  all  the  ideas  that  we 
take  up  and  play  with  like  children  with  toys,  and 
tire  of  and  leave  in  an  untidy  muddle  in  one's  mind. 
I  tried  to  reconstruct  something  out  of  all  the 
philosophy  I'd  ever  read,  something  that  would  have 
hope  and  faith  and  charity  in  it.  I  took  all  the  bits 
I  liked  and  tried  to  piece  them  together ;  but  they 
wouldn't  all  fit,  and  when  they  did  fit  there  didn't 
seem  to  be  any  meaning  in  it.  It  was  like  one  of  those 
windows  you  sometimes  see  in  churches,  made  of 
broken  bits  of  the  beautiful  old  stained  glass  that  has 
been  shattered  ;  the  window  is  there,  and  the  original 
fine  colours,  but  there  is  no  more  sense  or  pattern 
than  there  is  in  a  kaleidoscope.  .  .  .  Am  I  boring 
you  ?  " 


ANNE  285 

"  No — go  on.  Did  anything  come  ?  " 
"  Not  at  first.  I  tried  talking  theology  with  the 
chaplain,  but  I'd  read  so  much  more  than  he  had 
that  he  couldn't  help  much.  You  see  I've  read  and 
been  bitten  by  all  the  rationalists.  I  saturated 
myself  with  their  arguments — their  point  of  view, 
the  good  and  the  bad  ones.  He  thought  I  was 
presumptuous,  he  didn't  see  what  I  was  getting 
at,  and  fancied  I  must  be  trying  to  crab  his  creed. 
He  was  a  pleasant  little  chap  too — very  kind  ;  lent 
me  theological  books  when  he  found  I  was  sincere  ; 
and  he  was  broad-minded  too.  We  discussed  all  the 
modern  "  isms  "  that  are.  He  was  as  interested  in 
them  as  a  terrier  might  be  in  a  new  species  of  rat — 
he  was  a  good  orthodox  Christian.  Then  came  my 
rheumatic  fever — I  nearly  died,  I  think,  but  they 
pulled  me  through.  When  I  was  getting  better  I 
had  a  queer  vivid  dream.  I  dreamed  I  was  alone 
in  a  wild,  open  country — rather  like  the  moors  where 
I  used  to  take  you  for  walks  when  I  first  had  you. 
There  were  hills  and  heather,  and  I  was  alone  search- 
ing for  Truth.  I'd  got  the  old  adage  in  my  mind  that 
Truth  lived  at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  and  I  was  digging 
a  well  to  find  it — to  find  Truth.  I  went  on  digging 
away  right  down,  and  I  came  upon  nothing  but 
earth  and  great  stones,  and  then  water  and  mud, 
and  then  more  and  more  mud.  I  was  determined 
to  persevere :  in  my  dream  I  knew  that  if  I 
kept  on  I  should  find  Truth.  So  I  went  further 
and  further  down  to  the  dark  bowels  of  the  earth, 
and  still  I  found  nothing  but  mud  and  stones  till 
my  heart  began  to  despair  ;  but  I  kept  on,  and  at 
last,  after  aeons  of  time  it  seemed  to  me,  I  felt  some- 
thing was  coming.  I  knew  I  was  getting  near  to 


286  ANNE 

Truth.  I  was  all  in  the  darkness  then  you  know, 
my  well  had  become  a  great  deep  mine.  Suddenly 
I  went  down  a  bit  further  and  I  saw  light.  I  was 
coming  to  the  end,  I  broke  through  into  daylight. 
And  there,  after  the  darkness,  was  Truth — and  it  was 
the  luminous  everyday  sky  with  the  stars  !  I  had 
bored  right  through  the  world  !  and  my  first  feeling 
was  one  of  tremendous  joy  and  relief  at  discovering 
Truth.  Then  came  the  realisation  that  I  had  been  a 
fool,  for  I'd  had  the  sky  and  the  stars  overhead  on 
the  other  side  where  I'd  started  from,  if  I'd  only 
looked  up,  instead  of  boring  down  through  all  that 
mud  and  darkness.  But  when  I  woke  up  I  liked 
the  dream  :  it  had  comforted  me  tremendously." 

"  Did  it  help  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  helped  me  to  make  up  my  mind.  It 
helped  me  to  see  that  Truth  can't  be  a  matter  of 
wisdom  and  learning  and  esoteric  knowledge,  it  must 
be  there  like  the  fresh  air  and  the  stars  overhead, 
just  as  much  for  children  as  for  tired  old  philosophers 
— otherwise  it  wouldn't  be  fair.  That  made  every- 
thing simpler." 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"  Straightens  things  out.  The  choice  really  lies 
between  the  simple  belief  in  Christianity  with  all  its 
intellectual  mysteries  and  difficulties  accepted  by 
faith,  or  a  woolly -minded  sort  of  theism  without  a 
creed  at  all — a  hybrid  between  materialism  and 
spiritualism." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  believe.  It  is  rather  com- 
fortable to  have  an  elastic  faith  without  any  dogma 
to  bother  one's  brain." 

"  Comfortable  perhaps — but  is  it  comforting  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  a  faith  without  dogma  is  like  a 


ANNE  287 

human  being  without  a  skeleton — might  be  quite 
handsome  to  look  at,  and  quite  kind  and  amiable, 
but  it  would  be  a  bit  flabby  when  you  came  to  request 
it  to  do  a  day's  work.  After  all  a  creed,  like  every- 
thing else  in  the  world,  has  presumably  got  to  work. 
Not  much  use  it  being  consistent  and  rational  and 
undemanding  if  it  won't.  Men's  souls  are  made 
for  mysteries,  and  you  can't  feed  them  by  pretend- 
ing mysteries  don't  exist,  or  by  giving  them  cheap 
substitutes — might  as  well  feed  babies  on  cheap 
substitutes  for  milk,  they'd  grow  up  sickly  wasters 
if  they  didn't  die  off  young.  If  men  don't  feed  on 
the  great  logical  mysteries  they  take  to  petty  little 
illogical  ones,  *  superstitions  like  savages.  Do  you 
see  where  I've  drifted  ?  " 

Anne  shook  her  head.    "  Not  quite." 

"  Back  to  Catholicism " 

**  You  don't  mean  you've  become  a  Roman  Catho- 
lic ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  is  the  only  logical  form  of  Christianity 
there  is  ;  the  others  are  all  compromises — com- 
promises with  the  secular  spirit  of  different  ages, 
compromises  with  men's  transient  difficulties." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  mean  that  the  real  cleavage  between 
Catholicism  and  every  other  creed  is  over  the  faith 
in  the  resurrection  of  the  body.  The  immortality 
of  the  soul,  or  spirit,  yes  !  they'll  all,  or  nearly  all, 
believe  so  far :  but  the  immortality  of  the  body — 
that  is  where  their  belief  stops.  Now  mine  doesn't. 
I  believe  that  when  I  reach  Heaven  and  meet  you 
it  will  be  all  of  you,  all  that  I  love  in  you.  A  ghost 
of  you,  a  misty  wraith  of  your  mind,  and  your 
mental  and  moral  qualities,  and  your  opinions,  and 


288  ANNE 

ideas,  wouldn't  do  at  all.  Unless  you  looked  at  me 
through  your  blue  eyes  and  laughed  with  your 
lips  and  spoke  with  your  voice  and  held  out  your 
hands,  I  should  feel  cheated  out  of  part  of  you. 
Now  God  doesn't  cheat — can't ;  so  if  we're  promised 
immortality  at  all  it  must  be  an  immortality  that's 
really  worth  while  having.  I  don't  want  to  blow  about 
the  universe  for  ever  in  a  state  of  pure  spirit,  which 
is  what  the  modern  school  has  arranged  to  do — 
nobody  does  really  !  Do  you  ?  " 

"  No  !  and  if  I  ever  meet  Phil  again  I  shan't  want 
an  angel  baby,  I  shall  want  my  little  boy." 

"  Yes,  with  his  own  little  fair  rough  head  and  his 
bright  eyes.  Well,  that  doctrine  of  the  resurrection 
of  the  body  is  what  the  modernists  have  thrown 
overboard  because  they  can't  understand  it." 

"  But  John  "...  Anne  was  troubled.  "  You've 
got  to  believe  such  a  lot  if  you're  a  Roman 
Catholic." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  you  want  to  accept 
the  spirit  and  dispense  with  the  matter.  Don't  you 
see  you  might  just  as  well  ask  trees  to  bear  leaves 
and  flowers  and  fruit  and  deny  them  their  right  to 
their  roots  in  the  earth  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  see,"  said  Anne.  "But  I'm  not 
going  to  quarrel  with  you  about  religion.  If  it 
makes  you  happy  to  be  a  Catholic  or  a  Mahommedan 
or  a  Methodist,  why  you  must  be  one.  I  shall  like 
you  just  as  much. 

John  looked  unsatisfied. 

"  Your  toleration  isn't  a  proof  of  your  affection 
for  me.  It  only  proves  you  don't  care  a  bit  about 
the  subject."  He  thought  that  Anne  looked  troubled 
so  he  changed  the  conversation. 


ANNE  289 

"  I  heard  the  other  day  that  Molly  Campbell  has 
married  a  cousin  of  hers  up  in  Scotland.  I  was  very 
glad  of  course." 

"  Were  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  distant  polite  scepticism 
in  Anne's  voice. 

John's  face  flushed. 

"  I  say,  Anne  .  .  .  you — you  never  thought  that 
— believed  that  ...  I  ...  that  I'd  made  love 
to  that  poor  girl,  did  you  ?  " 

"  She  was  a  very  pretty  girl.  .  .  ." 

"  I  never  did  !  " 

"  You  needn't  be  so  fierce !  I  don't  see  much 
harm  in  it  if  you  had." 

"  But  I  didn't,  Anne.  It  wasn't  true !  It  was 
horrible  to  imagine  you  might  be  thinking  that. 
You  didn't  believe  it — did  you  ?  " 

"  I  rather  think  I  did — but  I  didn't  believe  any- 
thing bad  of  you,  John.  Why  do  you  look  at  me  as 
if  I'd  hurt  you  ?  " 

"  Because  it  does  hurt.  .  .  .  I've  not  achieved 
much,  I've  made  a  failure  of  everything,  but  at 
least  I've  kept  faith  with  my  own  ideal.  I've  always 
loved  you — never  cared  for  anyone  else — I  thought 
you  understood,  at  least  wouldn't  misjudge  me." 

Anne  flushed  crimson,  and  John  leaned  forward 
and  laid  his  thin  hand  gently  on  hers. 

"It  is  all  right,  Anne  dear.  I  thought  you  knew. 
Anyway  you  know  now.  I've  loved  you  ever  since 
you  were  a  little  girl.  It  has  been  an  enormous 
happiness  to  me,  and  it  doesn't  hurt  you  !  I'm  so 
used  to  it  that  it  is  quite  natural  to  speak  about  it. 
What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Anne's  eyes  were  misty. 


290  ANNE 

"  You've  been  so  unselfish,  John,  and  I've  given 
you  so  little  !  " 

"  You've  given  me  no  end.  You  don't  know  what 
you've  meant  to  me,  and  what  you  always  will  mean. 
All  my  day-dreams  are  wound  round  you.  They 
always  have  been  ;  you've  always  been  the  Princess 
in  my  castles  in  Spain.  I  should  have  been  a  very 
lonely  beggar  without  you  in  my  life.  As  it  is  I've 
always  had  you  to  think  about  and  care  for  and 
always  shall  have  as  long  as  I  live.  Whenever 
things  have  gone  badly  with  me  I've  cheered  myself 
up  by  playing  the  games  we  used  to  play,  you  and 
I,  when  you  were  a  kid.  Do  you  remember  we  used 
to  play  that  we  were  very  clever  people,  working 
together,  growing  rich  and  important  ?  Anne  !  I 
wouldn't  have  told  you  if  I'd  dreamed  it  would  make 
you  look  like  that !  I  thought  it  would  amuse  you 
and  make  you  laugh  !  " 

"  It  doesn't  make  me  laugh,"  she  said.  "  I  want 
to  cry.  It  is  all  so  unfair  !  You've  had  nothing  out 
of  life — nothing  but  injustice.  If  Pd  been  sent  to 
prison  there  might  have  been  some  sense  in  it, 
I've  got  a  dreadful  temper  ! — but  you  get  into  a  rage 
just  once  and  you're  punished  for  it ! — And  you've 
had  nothing  you  want  and  are  grateful  to  me,  and 
other  people  have  everything  they  want,  and  success, 
and  aren't  even  satisfied." 

She  spoke  tempestuously. 

"  You  needn't  cry,  my  dear  1  "  he  said  gently. 
"  And  you  needn't  get  in  a  temper  about  it !  "  He 
took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  held  it  against  his  cheek. 
"  I'm  a  very  lucky  fellow  really.  The  one  thing  I 
dreaded  was  dying  in  prison.  Well,  I  got  better  and 
I'm  let  out.  You're  here,  and  I've  a  peaceful  con- 


ANNE  291 

viction  that  I  shall  finish  my  book  and  make  a  much 
better  job  of  it  than  I  should  have  done  before." 

"  You're  not  strong  enough  to  work  yet." 

"  I  sliall  be  when  I  come  back  from  Ireland — fresh 
air  and  proper  food  and  exercise  will  put  me  right." 

Anne  didn't  look  as  if  she  were  listening. 

"  When  do  you  start  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  night.  I  think  the  Irish  mail  goes 
at  eight  from  Euston.  I  go  via  Holyhead  and  Kings- 
town, and  then  on,  to  the  Wicklow  Mountains.  I 
want  to  be  among  hills,  and  I  want  to  be  in  a  Catholic 
country.  I've  a  yearning  almost  as  if  something 
were  calling  me  to  go — otherwise  I'd  like  to  stay  in 
London  to  be  near  you.  But  I  shall  enjoy  London 
much  more  when  I'm  fit  to  stand  the  noises  and  the 
general  racket,  and  I  hardly  dared  hope  you'd  be 
here.  I  thought  you'd  be  away  for  the  summer. 
What  are  your  plans  ?  " 

"  I've  not  made  any — yet.  I  must  go  now.  You 
look  dreadfully  tired,  and  I'm  going  out  to  dinner. 
I  won't  say  good-bye,  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow.  .  .  ." 

"  When  ?  "  John  was  puzzled.  "  Will  you  come 
to  tea  again  ?  " 

"  No.    I  shall  be  too  busy." 

John  made  his  simple  preparations  for  his  journey 
at  leisure  the  next  day.  He  packed  his  portmanteau, 
half  filling  it  with  books,  and  later  found  he  was 
not  strong  enough  to  carry  it  to  the  station ;  the 
effort  to  do  so  racked  him  with  pain.  He  yielded 
it  to  a  half-grown  boy  of  about  fourteen  who  was 
desirous  of  being  a  mentor  as  well  as  a  porter.  John 
gathered  from  the  expressions  of  kindly  interest 
that  the  lad  thought  he  was  drunk. 

"  That's  orl  right,  guv'nor.    You  give  me  the  bag. 


292  ANNE 

Oi'll  carry  it  safe  as  houses  for  yer.  Just  you  follow 
me.  Know  which  station  you  want  ?  Three  of  'em 
along  this  'ere  road,  Euston,  King's  Cross,  an' 
St.  Pancras.  .  .  .  Euston  is  it  ?  Thet  ain't  no 
distance,  carry  it  fer  sixpence  !  Got  your  money 
handy  for  yer  ticket  ?  " 

"  Yes  thanks,  sonny,  and  I've  not  been  drinking. 
I'm  ill — rheumatism — that's  what's  the  matter  with 
me." 

"  Get  a  bottle  o'  medicine  at  the  chemist's  shop, 
guv'nor.  Mother,  she  'as  rheumatism  somethink 
cruel  she  does,  an'  I  fetches  her  some  stuff  in  a  bottle 
that  does  her  a  power  o'  good  ;  rubs  it  in,  she  does, 
but  one  day  she  took  and  drunk  it  and  said  it  did  a 
lot  more  good  inside  than  out." 

"  I  think  I'll  take  your  advice.  I  don't  want  my 
holiday  in  Ireland  spoilt."  He  went  into  a  chemist's 
shop  in  Gower  Street,  chaperoned  by  the  boy  who, 
on  the  strength  of  his  mother's  experiences,  took  a 
professional  interest  in  the  matter. 

"  I'm  suffering  from  rheumatism,"  explained  John 
to  the  man  in  the  shop.  "  Can  you  give  me  anything 
to  keep  the  pain  away  ?  " 

"  Liniment,  sir  ?  " 

The  man  peered  through  his  spectacles  at  a  dusty 
array  of  patent  medicines  in  straight  waistcoats  of 
cardboard. 

"  No-o — I  don't  think  I  want  to  be  bothered  to 
rub  things  in.  It  is  all  through  me,  you  know. 
Something  to  take  would  be  simpler." 

"  Salicylic  acid  ?  "    suggested  the  man. 

"  I  should  think  so.  You  know  more  about  it 
than  I  do  probably." 

The  chemist,  after  some  short  absence  out  of  sight 


ANNE  293 

behind  the  counter,  produced  a  neatly  sealed  package 
in  white  paper. 

"  One-and-nine,  sir,  please." 

"  Now  if  that  does  me  any  good,"  said  John  to  his 
companion,  "it  is  much  cheaper  and  simpler  than 
going  to  a  doctor." 

"  My  muwer,  she  says,  she  don't  'old  with  doctors 
— give  'er  a  bottle  o'  somethink  anyday  an'  she's 
'appy,  she  says.  When  it  comes  to  cuttin'  off  arms 
and  legs,  w'y  you've  got  to  'ave  a  doctor,  she  says, 
seein'  as  that's  wot  they're  trained  to  :  but  w'en  it 
comes  to  pain  inside  or  such-like,  wot  do  doctors 
know  ?  Nuffin'  but  wot  you  tells  'em  yourself,  she 
says.  An'  oo's  likely  to  know  best  about  medicine, 
she  says,  a  man  as  just  writes  it  down  somethin' 
shockin'  on  a  piece  of  paper,  or  the  man  in  the  shop 
wot  mixes  it  ?  W'y  the  man  wot  mixes  it  hisself, 
she  says.  'E  knows  what  'e  puts  hi  it,  she  says, 
which  is  more'n  what  the  doctor  does." 

Between  the  weight  of  the  bag  and  his  own 
loquacity  the  boy  was  breathless. 

"  I  like  your  faith  in  your  mother,  my  boy,"  said 
John.  "  You  stick  to  it."  He  took  his  ticket,  made 
the  boy  happy  by  giving  him  a  shilling  instead  of 
the  sixpence  which  he  had  expected,  bought  an  even- 
ing paper,  and  secured  a  corner  seat.  Then  he  had 
leisure  to  watch  the  arrival  of  fellow-passengers  and 
speculate  upon  the  chances  of  keeping  his  carriage 
to  himself. 

A  few  minutes  before  the  scheduled  time  for  the 
train's  departure  a  porter,  carrying  a  leather  suit- 
case and  a  travelling-bag,  stopped  at  the  door  of  his 
carriage,  and  behind 'the  porter  was  Anne.  She  was 
not  wearing  the  clothes  he  had  seen  her  in  the  after- 


294  ANNE 

noon  before,  her  small  hat  had  a  brim  which  half 
hid  her  face,  and  her  coat  had  a  high  collar ;  he  did 
not  recognise  her  until  she  said  : 

"  Oh,  here  you  are  !  "   and  got  into  the  carriage. 

"  Anne !  How  perfectly  angelic  of  you  to  come 
and  see  me  off." 

She  leaned  back  in  the  corner  seat  opposite  him 
and  tipped  the  porter  who  had  stowed  the  bags  in 
the  rack. 

"  I'm  coming  with  you,"  she  said. 

"  You're  coming  with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  Ireland." 

"  To  Ireland  ?  " 

He  was  so  astonished  he  could  only  repeat  her 
words  after  her. 

"  Yes.  I — I  meant  to  yesterday — but  I  didn't 
tell  you  because  I  hadn't  quite  arranged  it  all  in  my 
mind."  She  lifted  her  veil  and  pulled  off  her  gloves, 
and  she  smiled  at  him  happily  and  mysteriously. 

"  Don't  ask  any  more  questions  just  now,"  she 
said ;  "  there'll  be  heaps  of  time  for  explanations. 
Just  try  to  get  over  your  surprise,  and  look  pleased." 

"  But— arn't  I  looking  pleased  ?  " 

"  No,  you're  looking  dazed." 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  feel — of  course  it  is  too 
jolly  for  words,  but " 

At  this  moment  the  agitated  guard  threw  opei* 
their  carriage,  pushed  in  an  excited  man,  and  shut 
the  door  after  him  as  the  train  steamed  out  of 
the  station.  The  new-comer  settled  down  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  carriage  and  began  to  explain 
how  he  had  nearly  missed  the  train  :  the  gist  of  his 
views  seemed  to  be  that  the  hotel  porters  and  the 
cabdrivers  of  London  were  leagued  in  a  perpetual 


ANNE  295 

conspiracy  to  make  all  travellers  miss  every  train 
on  all  occasions.  He  was  a  communicative  individual, 
an  Irish  landowner  from  Armagh.  He  had  been  buy- 
ing cattle  in  England,  and  became  lyrical  over  the 
beauties  of  the  pedigree  stock  he  had  grazing  at 
Drumnagoon  and  invited  them  both  to  see  them  if 
they  were  contemplating  a  visit  to  Belfast.  He  rather 
lost  interest  in  them  as  an  audience  when  Anne 
informed  him  they  were  going  to  Wicklow.  When 
he  pulled  the  Strand  Magazine  out  of  his  overcoat 
pocket  and  began  to  read,  Anne  took  off  her  hat, 
curled  up  on  the  seat  and  went  to  sleep.  John  had 
to  wake  her  at  Holy  head. 

On  board  the  Munster,  when  Anne  had  found  a 
berth  in  the  ladies'  cabin,  he  lay  down  in  the  saloon 
and  tried  to  compose  himself  to  think  more  calmly 
than  had  been  possible  in  the  train  in  her  presence  ; 
then  he  had  only  been  able  to  watch  her  unconscious 
face  :  he  had  puzzled  the  Ulsterman  by  gazing  at 
her  with  an  unwearying  intensity,  like  a  gaunt, 
sombre  guardian  angel.  Now,  alone,  stretched  out  on 
the  Bed  velvet  couch  he  began  to  collect  his  thoughts 
— but  he  was  worn  out  and  astonished  himself  by 
falling  into  a  deep  untroubled  sleep.  When  he  woke 
up  and  went  on  deck  they  were  in  sight  of  Ireland 
which,  in  the  early  morning  mist,  lay  like  an  amethyst 
island  in  an  opalescent  sea.  Anne  was  on  deck, 
standing  by  the  rail,  and  he  went  to  her. 

"  Isn't  it  lovely  ?  "  she  said.  "  It  is  like  a  fairy 
island  in  a  dream.  We've  left  everything  behind — 
we'll  forget  everything  and  be  perfectly  happy." 

He  put  his  arm  through  hers  and  said  : 

"  I  was  stunned  last  night — and  now  I'm  just  as 
incapable  of  thinking  or  speaking  or  realising  any- 


296  ANNE 

thing  but  that  you're  here  with  me.  I  can't  say  a 
word  of  what's  in  my  heart — there  is  some  happiness 
that  is  so  exquisite  and  sharp  that  it  is  almost  pain — 
almost  beyond  bearing.  It  is  all  so  like  a  dream 
that  I'm  terrified  of  waking  up  and  finding  myself 
back  in  prison." 

"  Don't,  John.    I  really  can't  bear  it !  " 

Her  eyes  were  clouded  with  tears  as  she  looked  up 
at  him.  He  was  aware  that  she  was  subtly  evading 
the  questions  he  wanted  to  ask,  and,  as  he  found  it 
difficult  to  frame  the  questions,  he  put  them  by  for 
the  moment.  Anne  was  with  him,  was  apparently 
intending  to  come  with  him  all  the  way  to  Wicklow — 
and  she  did  not  wish  to  be  asked  how  she  had  con- 
ceived or  achieved  this.  He  could  only  accept  her 
decision  as  he  accepted  his  own  surprise  and  happiness 
— with  awed,  inarticulate  surprise  and  joy.  Anne 
was  touched  and  amused  by  his  attitude  of  perplexed 
and  tender  reverence  ;  he  behaved  as  if  she  were  a 
rare  and  beautiful  bird  who  had  escaped  from  a  cage 
and  might  fly  from  his  hands  if  he  startled  her ;  yet 
when  the  boat  reached  Kingstown  she  had  to  do 
everything  practical.  John  would  have  lost  sight 
and  trace  of  their  luggage,  and  made  automatically 
for  the  first  train  that  he  saw,  regarding  not  its  ulti- 
mate destination.  She  supervised  their  porter  and 
made  necessary  enquiries.  A  fellow-passenger,  a 
middle-aged  Irishwoman,  overheard  her  questioning 
the  stationmaster  and  drew  her  aside,  volunteering 
information. 

"  Don't  you  be  asking  the  officials,  my  dear — 
they'll  surely  mislead  you.  I'm  going  beyond  there 
myself.  I  know  the  ways  of  those  south  trains." 

Anne  concluded  that  in  Ireland  the  trains  had 


ANNE  297 

ideas  and  wills  of  their  own  and  disdained  the  direc- 
tions of  their  hireling  uniformed  shepherds.  Their 
self-appointed  guide  took  them  into  her  kindly 
charge. 

While  they  were  waiting  for  breakfast  she  whispered 
to  Anne. 

"  Your  husband  looks  very  ill." 

Anne  started,  coloured  vividly  and  looked  at  John. 
Then  her  colour  fled,  for  his  lips  were  blue  and  she 
thought  he  was  fainting.  The  strange  woman 
fumbled  in  her  travelling-basket  and  brought  out  a 
flask  full  of  brandy,  made  John  drink  some.  He 
recovered  and  smiled  reassuringly  at  Anne's  scared 
face. 

"  I'm  all  right.  Only  the  rheumatic  fever  left  my 
heart  weak — I  get  these  attacks,  but  they  go  off." 

The  stranger  took  the  explanation  to  herself  and 
was  inclined  to  pursue  the  subject  of  the  illness  with 
all  a  kind-hearted  woman's  interest,  but  Anne  warded 
off  the  enquiries  and  tried  to  take  care  of  John — to 
treat  him  as  an  invalid ;  she  was  frightened  by  his 
evident  weakness,  and  felt  helpless  and  unhappy. 

**  You'll  be  all  right  when  we  get  there,  won't 
you  ?  "  she  asked  wistfully  and  uncertainly,  much 
as  she  had  been  wont  to  try  and  extract  a  promise 
from  Phil  that  he  would  be  good. 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  shall,"  he  assured  her. 

The  strange  woman  took  them  under  her  charge 
regarding  them  with  benevolent  concern ;  also  she  was 
pleased  to  have  an  English  audience  with  whom  to 
discuss  Irish  politics  as  they  breakfasted  together 
while  they  waited  for  the  train ;  she  seemed  to  think 
the  English  nation  lacked  intelligence  on  the  subject 
of  Ireland. 


298  ANNE 

"  It  isn't  that,"  John  explained.  "  It  is  lack  of 
interest.  The  average  Englishman  can't  see  that 
Ireland  is  of  much  importance,  and  the  Irishman 
can't  see  that  anything  else  is." 

"  We  think  they're  ungrateful,"  explained  Anne. 
"  We  do  try  to  be  kind  and  it  doesn't  seem  any  use." 

"  You've  put  your  finger  on  it !  The  English 
mean  to  be  kind  and  expect  gratitude.  That  is 
what  the  Irish  cannot  stand.  They  don't  want  to 
be  accepting  kindnesses,  they're  that  generous  and 
proud -hearted  they  want  to  be  doing  the  kindnesses 
themselves." 

The  Irishwoman  shepherded  them  to  the  train  and 
travelled  with  them :  they  seemed  to  her  a  singu- 
larly pathetic  couple,  delicate,  young,  and  forlorn. 

"  Bringing  a  sick  man  into  the  wilds  of  Ireland 
without  as  much  as  a  drop  of  brandy  between  them, 
the  creatures  !  "  she  murmured  to  herself.  She 
regretted  when  they  got  out  at  Rathgorm  ;  they 
so  obviously  needed  some  motherly,  elderly,  sensible 
person  to  go  with  them  to  take  care  of  them. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THEY  drove  eight  miles  in  a  side-car  through  the 
Wicklow  hills  to  Ballytyrone,  eight  long,  lonely, 
lovely  miles,  with  the  wide  wind-swept  space  round 
them  purple  with  heather  and  encircled  by  intensely 
blue  hills — range  upon  range  of  hills  where  winds 
and  clouds  gathered,  brewing  into  storms  like  smoke 
in  a  giant's  cauldron.  They  passed  two  little  villages, 
handfuls  of  tiny  white  cottages,  scattered  along  the 
road  like  crumbs  of  food  for  the  great  invisible 
winged  spirits  that  surely  dwelt  among  the  mountains. 
The  shadows  of  the  clouds  that  passed  over  the  empty 
valleys  seemed  but  the  echo  of  their  brooding 
presences. 

Their  journey  ended  by  the  edge  of  a  small  lake. 
The  lake  was  almost  surrounded  by  mountains  rising 
straight  out  of  the  water,  but  at  one  end  of  it  the 
valley  opened,  and  there  was  a  little  church  and  a 
few  whitewashed  cottages  with  thatched  roofs.  At 
the  foot  of  a  steep  hill  there  was  one  small  grey 
stone  house,  and  at  the  door,  over  which  was  a 
board  which  announced  that  the  proprietor's  name 
was  Patrick  Kavanagh,  the  horse  stopped.  A  rosy- 
faced  woman,  who  was  Mrs.  Patrick  Kavanagh,  came 
out  to  greet  them.  She  seemed  surprised  to  see 
John's  companion  on  the  car,  for  he  had  not  men- 
tioned any  when  he  wrote  to  engage  rooms,  but  she 
hospitably  welcomed  Anne  when  he  explained  : 

299 


300  ANNE 

"  Mrs.  Trevor  has  come  with  me — I  hope  you  can 
do  with  a  lady  as  well  ?  " 

"  Surely  we  can,  and  bless  her  pretty  face !  As 
soon  as  Mary  Ursula  has  the  pigs  fed  she'll  make  a 
room  dacent  and  nate  for  you,  ma'am.  And  I'll  have 
a  good  cup  o'  tay  ready  for  you  both  this  minute. 
And  thin,  if  it  is  all  night  you've  been  tossing  and 
heaving  on  thim  boats,  it  is  a  bit  of  steady  rest  you'll 
be  needing,  God  help  you  !  " 

A  small  garden  sloped  down  from  the  side  of  the 
inn  to  the  lake  edge,  a  garden  surrounded  by  a  low 
fuchsia  hedge  aglow  with  scarlet  and  purple  flowers. 
An  apple  tree  shaded  a  corner  of  the  square  grass 
plot,  and  bees  droned  over  some  bushes  of  white 
phlox. 

"  What  a  heavenly  place  !  "  Anne  exclaimed  as 
she  stood  in  the  sun-flecked  shadow  of  the  apple  tree 
and  looked  over  the  flower  hedge  to  the  lake  and  the 
hills  beyond. 

"  You  don't  think  it  will  be  too  rough  for  you  ?  " 
John  asked  with  an  anxious  glance  at  the  inn. 

"  No  ;  besides,  what  does  it  matter  ?  Look  ! 
there's  a  boat  on  the  lake  ;  we'll  have  it  out  after 
we've  rested,  and  explore  the  mountains  the  other 
side.  Only  you  must  rest  first.  You're  an  invalid, 
and  I'm  nursing  you." 

John,  worn  out  by  the  journey,  the  long  drive,  and 
by  his  own  perplexities  and  emotions,  lay  down  on 
the  grass  in  the  sun-flecked  shade  of  the  apple  tree. 
So  far  he  had  not  had  Anne  to  himself.  There  had 
been  their  fellow-travellers  on  the  journey,  then 
Michael  Henry,  the  driver.  Anne  had  talked  to 
Michael  Henry  all  the  way,  trying  to  extract  infor- 
mation about  the  neighbourhood,  a  difficult  process, 


ANNE  301 

for  he  was  a  silent,  taciturn  young  man.  Now  she 
was  making  friends  with  Mrs.  Kavanagh  indoors. 
He  could  wait.  He  lit  a  cigarette  and  lazily  watched 
a  heron  rise  among  the  reeds  that  fringed  the  lake 
and  fly  across  to  a  grove  of  trees,  and  he  wondered 
whether  Heaven  had  anymore  perfect  contentment 
and  beauty  :  the  glory  of  the  mountains,  the  sap- 
phire blue  distances  seen  over  the  purple  hedge,  and 
the  white  phlox,  the  cool  sound  of  the  lake  water 
lapping  the  shore,  Anne's  voice  in  the  distance. 
He  slept,  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes  an  hour  or 
two  later  they  rested  on  Anne,  Anne  radiant  in  a 
thin  blue  dress,  without  her  hat,  gathering  sprays  of 
flowers  for  the  table  Mrs.  Kavanagh  was  spreading 
for  lunch  in  the  garden. 

"  This  is  just  perfect,"  John  remarked  suddenly. 
**  These  mountains  are  like  the  Kingdom  of  God — 
'  for  Thine  is  the  Kingdom,  the  power  and  the 
glory.  .  .  .'  Somehow  pictures  and  geography  books 
give  us  two-dimensional  mountains,  height  and 
length  of  their  range ;  but  they're  so  thick  through — 
their  breadth  and  depth — that's  their  strength  and 
fascination.  I  don't  ever  want  to  go  back.  This  is 
too  exquisite.  It  is  like  some  music  that  is  so  pierc- 
ingly beautiful  it  feels  as  if  it  were  going  to  break 
through  something,  some  barrier,  and  let  one  straight 
through  to  another  world.  You  can't  bear  it  to  stop, 
yet  you  can  hardly  bear  the  beauty  of  it  going  on. 
You  want  it  to  stand  still  for  a  moment.  That  is 
what  1  feel  now.  I  want  time,  and  all  this  beauty, 
and  you,  to  stand  still.  The  moments  are  slipping 
away  before  I've  drunk  them  all  in,  and  they  are  so 
full.  Perfection  is  almost  pain  because  one  can't 
really  bear  it.  All  this  would  have  been  sweet  enough 


302  ANNE 

if  I'd  been  alone — but  with  you,  it  is  just  heavenly  !  " 
He  roused  himself  from  his  reverie  with  a  sudden 
effort.  "  But  how  has  it  come  about  ?  What  did 
Gilbert  say  to  you  coming  ?  " 

"  Nothing.    I  didn't  tell  him." 

"  Didn't  tell  him  ?  " 

"  No.  I've  left  a  letter  for  Francesca.  She'll  tell 
him." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  won't  mind  ?  " 

"  It  is  nothing  to  me  whether  he  minds  or  not." 

John  laughed  uneasily. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  being  so  high  and  mighty, 
Anne  dear,  but  don't  you  think  we'd  better  write 
to  him  ?  I — I  don't  want  there  to  be  any  risk  of  a 
row  when  you  get  back  !  " 

Anne  stared  at  him. 

"  But  I'm  not  going  back  !  " 

"  Not  going  back  ?  " 

"  No.  I've  run  away  !  And  as  it  is  no  fun  running 
away  by  one's  self,  I've  run  away  with  you  !  "  She 
laughed  rather  nervously,  and  held  out  her  hand. 
"  D'you  mind  ?  " 

"  Mind  ?  "  He  kept  her  hand,  kissed  it,  and  laid 
his  cheek  against  it.  "  My  dear  !  But  you  don't 
expect  me  to  exult  if  happiness  for  me  is  being  bought 
at  too  great  a  price,  and  at  your  cost.  You  see, 
Anne  dearest,  I  don't  understand." 

"It  is  all  quite  simple.  Gilbert  and  I  made  a 
failure  of  our  marriage.  While  Phil  was  alive  there 
was  some  point  in  keeping  up  appearances — now 
there  isn't.  We — we  haven't  meant  anything  to 
each  other  for  a  long  time.  I — I've  been  awfully 
unhappy,  really.  Gilbert  never  cared,  and  so  ... 
now  I  know  you  do.  .  .  ." 


ANNE  303 

John's  face  was  rather  grim. 

"  Do  you  mean  Gilbert  was  unfaithful  to  you  ?  " 

Anne's  mouth  quivered,  and  she  nodded. 

"  I  suppose  I  could  have  divorced  him  if  I'd  wanted 
to,  only  I  didn't  want  to.  There  was  Phil,  and  I 
should  have  hated  it  all  so  much.  Now,"  she  shrugged 
her  shoulders,  "  I've  finished  with  it  all.  Gilbert  can 
do  what  he  likes." 

"  But,  my  dear  !  " 

"  Don't  look  so  distressed,  John." 

"  I'm  thinking  of  you.  I  want  you  to  be  happy. 
I  can't  bear  you  to  make  such  a  hash  of  life." 

"  That's  all  right.  We're  going  to  be  happy. 
Nothing  that  happens  to  me  now  can  hurt  me  any 
more.  John,  why  didn't  you  make  me  marry  you 
when  I  was  seventeen  ?  " 

"  What  had  I  to  offer  you  ?  " 

"  Your  love,  your  faith,  your  friendship.  John, 
so  far  I  have  brought  you  nothing  but  worry.  I  do 
want  to  make  it  up  to  you  !  " 

John  had  risen  and  moved  a  step  away  from  her. 
He  was  standing  looking  out  over  the  lake.  He 
turned  as  Anne  came  to  him,  drew  her  into  his  arms, 
and  laid  his  lips  on  hers.  They  kissed  each  other 
once,  then  Anne  released  herself. 

"  Let's  go  on  the  lake,"  she  suggested. 

Michael  Henry,  who  had  driven  them  from  the 
station,  asked  nothing  better  than  to  row  them  in 
the  clumsy,  paintless  boat  which  John  was  not 
strong  enough  to  propel. 

"  The  garden  can  weed  itself,"  he  said. 

John  always  behaved  as  if  Anne  were  a  very 
precious  charge,  but  he  was  especially  gentle  this 
afternoon  :  his  manner  was  that  of  a  tender-hearted 


304  ANNE 

adult  towards  a  very  young  child.  He  puzzled  her : 
she  felt  it  almost  galling,  after  she  had  taken  such  a 
very  mature  and  advanced  step  in  life  as  leaving  her 
husband  and  eloping  with  him,  to  be  treated  as  if  she 
were  a  baby. 

"  Almost  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  me  falling  out  of 
the  boat,"  she  said  to  herself.  Yet  she  couldn't  resent 
his  chivalrous  tenderness  in  which  there  was  no 
patronage  or  masterfulness,  only  an  awed  reverence. 

And  John  fancied  that  behind  Anne's  gaiety  that 
afternoon  was  defiance — defiance  not  of  him,  but  of 
something  more  remote  and  intangible,  as  if  she 
were  keeping  something  at  arm's  length,  challenging 
something  that  threatened  to  frustrate  her  will. 
She  was  exerting  all  her  will-power,  all  her  charm,  to 
make  him  happy,  to  be  happy  herself. 

Michael  Henry  rowed  them  about  the  lake  between 
the  purple  and  green  mountains  themselves  and 
their  reflections  in  the  smooth,  bright  water  ;  but 
they  could  not  talk  intimately  under  his  steady 
benign  gaze,  so  John  suggested  they  should  land  at 
the  southern  side  of  the  lake  and  walk  back.  The 
boat  was  pushed  in  on  a  little  shore  of  white  sand, 
where  the  steep  hills  ended  upon  a  soft  lawn  of  moss 
and  ferns  and  short  fine  grass.  Michael  Henry  helped 
them  out.  After  his  long  scrutiny  of  them  both,  he 
had  evidently  decided  to  take  his  orders  from  Anne, 
for  he  said  : 

"  And  whin  shall  I  tell  Mrs.  Kavanagh,  ma'am, 
that  you  and  your  brother  will  be  wanting  your 
tea  ?  " 

Anne  answered  vaguely,  and,  as  the  boat  pushed 
off,  she  glanced  quickly  through  her  lashes  at  John. 

"  You  introduced  me  on  the  scene  as  Mrs.  Trevor," 


ANNE  305 

she  reminded  him.  "  They've  taken  it  for  granted 
I'm  your  sister." 

"  Just  as  well,"  said  John  placidly.  "  No  need  to 
undeceive  them." 

He  winced  with  pain  as  he  moved. 

"  Oh,  John  !  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  My  beastly  rheumatism.  No,  it  isn't  very  bad. 
I've  brought  some  stuff  ;  I'll  take  it  if  it  gets  worse." 

The  path  round  the  lake  lay  in  the  shade  of  a  grove 
of  young  oak  trees  that  looked  old,  for  their  slender 
trunks  and  branches  were  covered  with  long  beards 
of  grey  lichen.  Anne  sat  down  on  the  deep  carpet 
of  vivid  green  moss,  and  John  looked  up  at  the  great 
silver  crags  of  the  hill  before  he  knelt  by  her  side 
and  put  his  arms  round  her. 

"  Anne  dear  1  I  love  you  too  much  to  accept  the 
sacrifice  of  your  whole  life." 

"  It  isn't  a  sacrifice.  I've  run  away  with  you  to 
please  myself." 

"  And  to  be  an  angel  to  me  :  and  to  annoy  Gilbert 
a  bit — eh  ?  "  His  lips  touched  her  cheek  and  felt  it 
grow  hot. 

"  We  needn't  consider  Gilbert,"  she  said  quickly. 

"  How  long  ago  did  he — let  you  down  ?  " 

"  Years  ago.  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  it,  please, 
John." 

"  It  still  hurts  too  much  ?    Is  that  why  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  took  her  hands 
in  both  of  his. 

"  Anne  darling — don't  you  know  that  you  still 
care  ?  You  still  love  Gilbert,  or  he  couldn't  still  hurt 
you  !  " 

"  I  don't  I   He  doesn't !  "   She  protested  vigorously 


306  ANNE 

and  drew  back  to  look  at  him  with  reproachful  lips 
and  bewildered  indignant  eyes.  "  Haven't  I  proved 
to  you  that  I  don't  care  ?  " 

"  No,  you  haven't.  Love  can  only  be  wounded 
when  it  is  alive  :  if  it  were  dead  it  wouldn't  feel  the 
pain." 

"  It  isn't — love.  It's  my  pride  got  hurt — of  course 
— very  naturally." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  pride  does  get  hurt  by  other 
people.  I  think  one  can  only  injure  one's  pride 
oneself.  Vanity  is  different,  other  people  can  hurt 
that  badly  enough ;  but  if  Gilbert  only  hurt  your 
vanity  it  wouldn't  last  so  long,  would  it  ?  " 

"  John  !  I  won't  be  vivisected  like  this  !  It  isn't 
fair,  nor  kind  !  " 

"  Yes  it  is.  It  is  only  fair  to  you,  and  kind,  to  face 
things  clearly.  It  is  very  sporting  of  you  to  ride 
across  country,  and  take  fences  without  knowing 
what's  the  other  side ;  but  if  I  see  you  heading  for 
a  precipice  I'm  bound  to  shout." 

"  You're  all  wrong.  Please  believe  what  I  say. 
Our  marriage  proved  a  mistake.  Gilbert  and  I  never 
really  loved  each  other." 

"  That  simply  isn't  true,  my  dear.  Gilbert  adored 
you." 

"  Well,  he  doesn't  now." 

"  I  can't  quite  believe  that.  I  dare  say  he  deserves 
kicking,  most  men  do  sometimes.  But  anyway, 
supposing  Gilbert  doesn't  love  you,  what  matters  is 
that  you  still  love  him.  ...  I  know  you  do,  dear. 
I  knew  it  when  I  kissed  you,  when  you  flinched  away 
from  discussing  him.  I  know  it  because  I'm  hurting 
you  now  this  minute  by  touching  on  it.  I  hate  hurt- 
ing you,  but  it  is  better  for  you  to  know  the  truth." 


ANNE  307 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  gesture  of  surrender,  and 
bowed  her  head. 

"  I  did  love  him,  John.  I've  said  I  didn't  because 
it  made  it  easier  to  bear ;  but  I  did  love  and  trust 
him,  and  he  failed  me.  We  quarrelled.  I  couldn't 
bear  it :  he  hurt  me  so,  and  I  tried  to  hurt  him.  I 
meant  to.  But  my  love  for  him  is  dead  and  buried, 
and  I  won't  dig  it  up  again.  Please  let  it  alone." 

"  But  what  if  you  buried  it  alive  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care.    Let  it  rest  in  peace." 

"  In  peace  !  How  can  it  be  in  peace  if  it's  alive  ? 
Anne  !  you're  such  a  child  !  I'd  be  a  blackguard  if 
I  didn't  try  to  be  wise  for  you,  but  it  is  terribly 
difficult.  I  care  for  you  so  much  that  I  want  you  to  be 
happy  more  than  I  want  happiness  for  myself,  and  you 
wouldn't  be  happy  if  you  wrecked  everything." 

"  Don't  you  realise,  John,  that  what  is  wrecked  is 
wrecked  already  ?  Gilbert  did  that." 

"  I  realise  that,  but  what  I'm  trying  to  put  into 
words  is  that  nothing  can  destroy  what  belongs  to 
eternity.  And  love,  my  love  for  you,  your  love  for 
Gilbert,  his  love  for  you,  is  there  all  the  time.  You 
can't  ignore  it  as  if  it  stopped  dead  and  was  done 
with.  If  matter  is  indestructible,  so's  spirit.  I 
suppose  that  is  the  meaning  of  sacraments,  a  linking 
on  to  eternity.  And  anyway,  what  counts  in  one's 
soul  is  one's  own  love  and  loyalty  and  affection  : 
that  is  what  it  hurts  so  to  lose.  I  mean  I  could  have 
borne  the  loss  of  your  affection  for  me  if  we'd  quar- 
relled, you  and  I,  but  if  I'd  lost  my  love  for  you  I 
should  have  been  a  desolate,  heart-broken  man.  If 
you  were  made  of  less  sensitive,  less  fine  stuff,  Anne, 
it  would  be  different.  Some  people  don't  love  gener- 
ously, but  you're  not  like  that.  I  know  it ;  it  is 


308  ANNE 

what  I  love  in  you,  and  you  mustn't  kill  it  because 
it  is  you  yourself." 

"  Are  you  telling  me  I  ought  to  forgive  Gilbert  ? 
I  did.  I  don't  bear  ill-will.  I've  just  passed  on." 

"  Do  you  think  that  one-sided,  conventional  for- 
giveness means  much  ?  Because  I  don't.  I  don't 
see  much  sense  in  it.  It  is  like  trying  to  force  a  drink 
of  cold  water  upon  someone  if  they're  not  thirsty 
and  don't  want  it.  They're  not  grateful  for  it,  and 
think  you're  a  tiresome  ass,  most  likely.  If  they're 
perishing  of  thirst  it  saves  their  life  and  reason,  and 
means  love  and  mercy.  But  it  is  no  use  if  they  don't 
want  it.  It  isn't  holy  to  be  simply  idiotic.  Martyrs 
could  be  made  of  silly  fools,  but  not  saints." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you're  driving  at,  John  !  I 
don't  know  whether  I'm  the  less  likely  to  be  a  saint 
or  a  martyr  !  I  don't  feel  the  smallest  beginnings 
of  either  in  me  anywhere.  They're  neither  the  least 
in  my  line." 

"  I  was  speaking  generally ;  but,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  you  have  got  the  raw  material  in  you  that 
saints  are  made  of." 

"  John,  you're  really  talking  blasphemous  non- 
sense !  "  He  grinned  cheerfully. 

"  That's  the  worst  of  a  Calvinistic  upbringing,  it 
confuses  the  mind.  Saints  aren't  born  angels,  they're 
developed  out  of  human  beings,  and  not  always  very 
well-behaved  ones  either,  as  far  as  I  remember  the 
history  of  the  most  effective  ones.  The  raw  human 
material  is  a  strong  will,  and  courage,  and  love  of 
perfection — you've  got  all  those  :  there  are  crowds 
of  other  things  but  they're  spiritual  and  divine.  I'm 
talking  of  human  qualities." 

"  They're  all  the  things  which  get  me  into  hot 


ANNE  309 

water.  If  I  hadn't  a  strong  will,  and  didn't  dare  do 
what  I  wanted  to,  and  didn't  want  to  snatch  what 
I  hadn't  got,  I  dare  say  I  should  have  behaved  quite 
nicely  and  been  a  domestic  success." 

"  You  wouldn't  have  been  you." 

"  If  you  want  me  to  be  a  saint,  John,  you're  too 
late  !  " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  make  a  mistake  you'll  suffer 
from." 

"  That  is  my  look  out.    I've  chosen." 

"  I  don't  mean  your  reputation,  my  dear.  You 
tell  me  that  you're  ready  to  sacrifice  it — that  I'm 
to  accept  it.  I  don't  mean  forgiveness  of  Gilbert, 
nor  faithfulness  to  him.  It  is  your  own  self  I'm  think- 
ing of.  You  see,  when  we  give  our  love  we've  got 
to  be  ruled  by  the  laws  of  love,  or  we  suffer :  so  we 
mustn't  be  cruel,  and  we  mustn't  be  weak.  And 
the  law  behind  all  love  is  the  doctrine  of  vicarious 
atonement,  the  central  theory  of  Christian  philosophy 
— and  if  we  believe  it,  we  can't  only  take  it  as  a 
transcendental  mystery  that  is  no  concern  of  ours, 
for  it  means  we've  got  to  bear  the  wrong  those  we 
love  do,  even  if  they  do  it  to  us.  And  bearing  doesn't 
only  mean  enduring  (we've  got  to  do  that  any  way, 
we  can't  help  it),  it  means  bearing  it  so  that  the 
burden  of  wrong  isn't  so  heavy  on  them  as  it  would 
be  if  we  just  gave  in  and  let  ourselves  be  crushed.  If 
anyone  we  love  makes  a  mistake,  or  commits  a  crime, 
we'd  gladly  undo  it  if  we  could,  to  spare  them  paying 
the  penalty.  Well,  we've  got  to  do  that  when  the 
wrong  done  is  to  ourselves,  because  that  is  the  only 
instance  when  we  really  have  control.  If  we  give 
our  love  to  anyone,  we  give  them  the  power  of  hurt- 
ing us ;  if  they  use  it  and  hurt  us  badly,  we  can't 


310  ANNE 

help  it ;  but  we  can  help  how  we  bear  it.  It  is  a 
terrible  revenge  to  take  to  be  destroyed,  to  carry  a 
spoilt  life  or  a  maimed  spirit  with  us  to  the  day  of 
judgment  and  say,  '  My  friend,  or  my  lover,  or  my 
child,  did  this  thing  to  me  ;  the  weapon  was  the  love 
I  gave  him.'  We  can't  help  suffering  ourselves,  but 
we  don't  want  those  we  love  to  suffer.  I  don't  care 
a  bit  if  Gilbert  suffers  on  your  account :  he  jolly  well 
deserves  to,  and  I  hope  he  jolly  well  will.  Serve 
him  right !  That  is  my  opinion,  and  it  is  all  right 
if  I  stick  to  it.  I  don't  love  him,  and  that  is  what 
my  brain  says.  But  you're  his  wife,  and  though 
you  may  share  that  opinion  with  me  intellectually, 
you  won't  feel  that  in  your  heart.  When  it  came  to 
the  point  and  there  was  a  penalty  to  be  paid  in 
spiritual  suffering,  you  wouldn't  wa  t  to  appear  as 
his  accuser,  for  him  to  be  punished  on  your  account 
as  well  as  his  own  :  no  woman  would  !  " 

"  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I  wouldn't,"  retorted 
Anne.  "  I  think  I'd  rather  like  it !  " 

"  Then  that  proves  you're  not  a  woman  yet — 
you're  still  a  child  ;  and — and  I'm  not  going  to  allow 
the  child  I  love  to  make  a  ghastly  mistake." 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

FRANCESCA  travelled  down  from  Scotland  by  the 
east  coast  route.  She  broke  her  journey  to  Norfolk 
at  Durham  and  Lincoln  to  see  the  cathedrals,  and 
then  regretted  that  she  had  not  allotted  time  to  visit 
Peterborough  and  Ely  again. 

"  One  day,"  she  thought  to  herself  as  she  drove 
home  from  the  station,  "  I  shall  coax  Anne  to  do 
a  round  of  cathedrals — Lincoln,  York,  Gloucester, 
Wells — and  over  to  France — Rouen,  Rheims,  Chatres. 
Although  she  is  so  tiresome  she  has  an  exquisite 
appreciation  of  lovely  things."  Her  mind  was  full  of 
pictures  of  Gothic  architecture  when  the  car  stopped 
at  her  open  door,  and  she  went  into  the  hall,  refresh- 
ingly cool  and  dim  after  the  white  heat  of  the  August 
sunshine,  and  took  up  the  letters  that  awaited  her. 
The  uppermost  one  was  from  John  Halliday. 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  WARING, 

You  will  have  heard  that  I've  got  my 
release.  I  hope  I  may  come  and  see  you  soon  ? 
I've  so  much  to  thank  you  for.  In  the  meantime 
I'm  pretty  seedy  and  not  equal  to  London,  nor 
work,  nor  anything  strenuous,  so  I'm  having  a 
short  holiday  before  taking  up  life  again.  I've 
turned  into  a  Catholic,  so  a  short  sojourn  in  a 
Catholic  country  will  be  an  opportunity  for  getting 

3" 


312  ANNE 

used  to  some  of  the  strangeness  of  it.  Suffering, 
mental  and  physical,  sharpens  one's  soul  sometimes, 
and  everyone  needs  a  spiritual  home.  I  wonder  if 
every  '  convert '  feels  rather  a  self-conscious  fool 
outwardly  when  he  mentions  it  ?  The  ideal  thing 
would  be  to  be  born  a  Catholic.  Anyway  you've 
always  been  so  awfully  decent  to  me  that  I  can't 
help  telling  you  where  life  has  landed  me.  It  is 
funny,  but  as  a  nation  we  are  so  queerly  dumb 
about  religion  that  I  have  not  the  least  idea 
whether  you'll  be  sympathetic  or  repelled  by  the 
step  I've  taken.  Will  you  tell  me  when  I  see  you  ? 
and  pray  forgive  this  egotistical  letter. 
Yours  sincerely  and  gratefully, 

JOHN  HALLIDAY." 

As  she  put  the  letter  in  her  handbag  she  said 
gently  and  rather  sadly  :  "  Poor  John  !  Well — it 
doesn't  much  matter  I  suppose."  Then  she  opened 
a  letter  addressed  in  Anne's  handwriting,  and  read  : 

"  DEAREST  FRANCESCA, 

I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  give  you  the  most 
awful  shock,  but  when  you  get  this  letter  I  shall 
be  in  Ireland  with  John.  He  is  so  ill  and  has 
suffered  so  much  that  I  couldn't  let  him  go  alone. 
He  has  had  nothing  but  disappointments  all  his 
life  and  it  isn't  fair.  He  loves  me  much  better 
than  Gilbert  ever  has  and  I  care  for  him  awfully. 
If  I'd  married  him  I  dare  say  I  should  have  turned 
out  much  nicer.  I'm  always  disappointing  you  ; 
and  Gilbert  and  I  have  made  a  failure  of  our 
marriage — so  now  he  can  get  free  and  marry  some- 
body else  if  he  likes.  Of  course  I  shouldn't  have 
done  this  if  Phil  had  lived,  because  it  wouldn't 


ANNE  313 

have  been  fair  on  him.  I'm  sorry  if  this  hurts  you. 
You've  always  been  awfully  good  to  me  really. 
But  you  believe  in  women's  suffrage  and  divorce 
and  all  that,  so  perhaps  you'll  understand  and  see 
that  I've  done  the  right  thing  and  forgive  me  in 
time.  Please  will  you  tell  Gilbert  ?  I  don't  want 
to  be  unkind,  but  it  is  too  difficult  to  write  to  him. 

ANNE." 

Francesca  sat  down  on  the  oak  chest  in  the  hall 
and  tried  to  gather  together  her  faculties  which 
the  perusal  of  these  letters  had  scattered.  Her 
thoughts  seemed  to  be  torn  from  her  as  leaves  from 
a  tree  in  an  autumn  hurricane,  violently  blown  in  all 
directions  beyond  her  reach  or  control  and  with  but 
remote  possibilities  of  her  ever  being  able  to  recall 
them.  Possibly  a  tree  at  such  moments  feels  despair 
— not  only  the  despair  of  the  immediate  outrage  and 
loss,  but  a  hopeless,  desperate  sense  of  the  vastness 
of  effort  and  energy  required  to  produce  an  entirely 
new  set  of  leaves  in  order  to  live.  She  tried  to  force 
her  brain  to  wrestle  with  the  situation,  but  the 
thoughts  it  produced  at  the  imperious  command 
of  her  troubled  soul  were  incompatible  with  each 
other.  She  found  herself  trying  to  think  simul- 
taneously that  it  was  exactly  like  Anne,  and 
startlingly  and  tragically  unlike  her :  that  Anne 
had  always  been  impossible  and  selfish,  and  that  she 
(Francesca)  had  always  felt  sure  she  would  do  some- 
thing like  this  one  day,  and  that  Anne  had  always 
been  a  darling  and  that  nobody  could  possibly  have 
imagined  her  doing  anything  so  wicked  :  her  brain 
threatened  to  continue  working  like  this  indefinitely, 
like  a  merry-go-round  at  a  fair,  whirling  round  a 


814  ANNE 

miscellaneous  crowd  of  passengers,  changing  them 
every  minute  and  not  taking  them  anywhere.  But 
the  necessity  of  fulfilling  the  mission  Anne  had  laid 
upon  her  of  breaking  the  news  to  Gilbert,  roused 
her  to  action.  She  mechanically  ate  some  of  the 
food  prepared  for  her  and  caught  the  afternoon  train 
to  London. 

Gilbert  was  out ;  but  he  arrived  home  at  about 
seven  o'clock  in  a  mood  of  pleasurable  exhilaration. 
He  seemed  delighted  to  find  her  there,  and  far  more 
anxious  to  tell  her  his  own  news  than  to  listen  to 
anything  she  had  to  communicate  to  him. 

"  Hello  !  Francesca  !  This  is  very  nice — when 
did  you  arrive  ?  Anne  never  told  me  you  were 
coming.  Is  she  in  ?  Never  mind — I've  got  that 
appointment." 

"  What  appointment  ?  "  His  good  spirits  made 
her  uncongenial  task  more  difficult. 

"  Didn't  you  get  my  letter  ?  I  told  you  I'd  hopes 
of  getting  into  the  legal  department  of  the  Treasury 
as  an  Assistant  Registrar.  Well,  it  is  settled.  I 
get  a  salary  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  rising 
to  a  thousand  pounds  and  the  prospects  of  promotion 
and  fifteen  hundred  pounds." 

He  was  so  pleased  that  he  hardly  noticed  that 
Francesca's  congratulations  were  brief  and  inade- 
quate as  he  walked  about  the  room  whistling  softly. 
He  was  building  castles  in  the  air,  making  fresh 
resolutions.  It  meant  a  great  deal  to  him,  this 
very  dull  appointment ;  it  represented  achievement 
and  success,  and  the  end  of  humiliating  worries. 
He  promised  himself  to  forget  all  that  was  past ;  he 
would  begin  afresh.  He  would  begin  by  having 
a  really  enjoyable  holiday,  he  would  go  to  Italy  and 


ANNE  315 

take  Anne.  After  all  it  was  foolish  to  allow  Anne 
to  keep  him  at  arm's  length  any  longer :  he  had 
given  her  plenty  of  time  to  get  over  anything  that 
had  upset  her.  They  hadn't  been  away  together 
for  years — surely  she  could  be  bribed  with  the 
allurements  of  Venice  and  Florence,  and  there  was 
no  more  charming  companion  than  Anne  when  she 
wasn't  sulking.  He  knew  that  he  owed  this  appoint- 
ment partly  to  her.  Lawrence  Ackroyd  had  exerted 
his  influence  to  obtain  it  for  him  for  Anne's  sake. 
This  led  him  to  wonder  where  Anne  was,  and  to  try 
to  remember  whether  she  had  informed  him  she  was 
going  away,  and  if  so  where.  He  wanted  to  tell 
her  the  news,  he  wanted  to  show  her  that  he  wasn't 
such  a  failure  after  all,  he  wanted  to  see  her  look 
pleased.  Other  people's  congratulations  were  satis- 
fying but  normal,  it  would  be  a  novel  sensation  to 
gratify  Anne.  Francesca  didn't  seem  properly 
excited  by  his  news  ;  she  looked  pale  and  dejected. 

"  Gilbert,  I've  had  a  letter  from  Anne.  I've 
come  straight  up  with  it.  The  most  dreadful  thing 
has  happened.  .  .  ." 

"  What  is  it  ?  For  God's  sake  don't  try  to  break 
things  gently  !  She  hasn't  got  smashed  up  in  a  motor 
accident  ?  " 

"  No,  she's  all  right,"  with  an  emphasis  that 
suggested  she  was  all  wrong.  "  But  she  has  gone 
off  to  Ireland  with  John  Halliday  !  " 

"  She  hasn't  ?  "  The  exasperation  in  Gilbert's 
voice  told  Francesca  that  he  regarded  this  perform- 
ance as  a  freak  to  be  deprecated,  but  accepted  as 
a  normal  part  of  Anne's  programme. 

"  I'm  afraid  so.  She  has  run  away — you'd  better 
read  her  letter.  ,  ." 


316  ANNE 

He  snatched  it  from  her,  and  turned  white  as  he 
read  it. 

Francesca  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  bit  her 
lips  while  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"  There's  a  letter  from  John  too — he  never  says 
a  word.  ...  I  wouldn't  have  believed  he'd  be  so 
deceitful." 

"  John  !  "  Gilbert  said  contemptuously.  "  He's 
as  weak  as  water.  You  don't  suppose  it  is  his  doing, 
do  you  ?  I  don't  see  Anne  being  run  away  with 
against  her  will  by  any  man,  let  alone  John,  whom 
she  could  always  twist  round  her  little  finger." 

"  She  was  always  terribly  selfish.  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  damned  if  I  see  what  she  gains  by  bolting 
with  John — a  man  without  a  bob  in  the  world,  and 
neither  health  nor  reputation,  just  out  of  gaol. 
Whoever  could  have  imagined  it  of  her  ?  Whatever 
else  it  proves,  it  doesn't  prove  her  selfishness  that  I 
can  see — the  silly  little  fool !  "  Gilbert  spoke  slowly 
and  grimly,  with  an  effort.  "  It  isn't  as  if  I'd  bullied 
her,  I've  given  her  her  head  till  she's  lost  it.  I 
trusted  her — I  trusted  in  her  sense — and  she  hasn't 
any.  I  suppose  she  is  in  one  of  her  beastly  tempers 
about  something." 

"  She  is  outrageous  ;  but  she  is  still  very  young, 
Gilbert.  Sometimes  I  think  she  grows  younger 
instead  of  older,  more  like  a  naughty  child,  and  that 
it  must  be  our  fault — that  she  has  developed  wrongly. 
I've  been  thinking,  and  I  called  at  John's  rooms 
on  my  way  here  to  see  if  his  landlady  knew  where- 
abouts he'd  gone  to,  and  he's  left  his  full  address 
for  letters  to  be  forwarded  !  If  I  went  over  there 
and  saw  Anne  ?  Perhaps  it  would  be  some  use. 
She  might  listen  to  me." 


ANNE  317 

"  I'm  going  myself,"  said  Gilbert.  "  And  I'll  see 
that  she  does  listen  to  me."  He  spoke  with  a  sullen 
passionate  note  in  his  voice  that  Francesca  had  never 
heard  before  ;  she  was  afraid. 

"  But  what  shall  you  do  if  ...  if.  ...  Wouldn't 
it  be  better  for  me  to  go  ?  " 

"  No,  it  would  not.  You've  always  been  a  fool 
about  Anne  !  " 

"  I've  always  been  fond  of  her,"  replied  Francesca 
with  forlorn  sadness.  "  I've  always  felt  she  was 
capable  of  doing  something  rather  wonderful  1  " 

"  I've  no  doubt  she  thinks  she's  done  something 
remarkable  now — and  him  too !  Where's  that 
damned  Bradshaw  ?  " 

"  Gilbert  .  .  ." 

,  "  I'm  not  going  to  murder  them,  or  any  melo- 
dramatic rot  like  that,"  said  Gilbert  savagely ; 
answering  the  troubled  pleading  anxiety  painted  on 
Francesca's  face. 

"  But  Gilbert — the  letter  is  dated  four  days  ago. 
What  are  you  going  for  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  till  I  get  there  ?  " 

He  was  irritated  by  Francesca's  concentration  on 
Anne.  He  would  deal  with  Anne  when  he  found 
her.  At  present  he  was  only  concerned  with  him- 
self, his  own  distaste,  disgrace,  and  disappointment. 
Anne  had  spoiled  everything. 

He  was  glad  to  escape  from  the  house  with  a 
hurriedly  packed  portmanteau,  from  Francesca's 
tearful  wretched  face.  Anne  was  ungrateful,  heart- 
less, wanton  ...  it  was  a  poor  satisfaction  he  got 
from  applying  critical  epithets  to  her,  something  like 
feeding  a  starving  parched  body  with  crumbs  of  dry 
biscuit.  If  he  could  have  Anne  in  his  grasp,  in  his 


318  ANNE 

power,  to  shake  her,  to  seize  her  physically  and 
shake  her  until  he  had  exhausted  his  desire  to  shake 
her — that  was  the  only  thing  that  would  do  him 
any  good.  He  thought  of  her  as  something  strong 
and  terrible  and  powerful ;  she  had  the  power  to 
rouse  all  the  emotions  that  he  despised  in  other 
people  and  resented  and  feared  in  his  own  soul — the 
ugly,  crude,  primitive  emotions  that  belonged  to 
savages  and  children,  not  to  respectable  legal  officials 
with  responsible  positions.  Children  got  into  passions 
and  expressed  them  by  irrational  physical  violence — 
children  and  the  uneducated  adults  of  the  lower 
classes.  He,  Gilbert  Trevor,  barrister-at-law  and 
Assistant  Registrar,  couldn't  behave  like  a  child  or 
a  drunken  miner.  He  felt  a  fierce  irritation  with 
himself  as  well  as  with  Anne.  Of  course  it  would 
serve  Anne  right  if  he  didn't  mind  what  she  did,  but 
he  did  mind ;  he  minded  sharply  and  bitterly. 

As  the  Irish  mail  bore  him  to  Holyhead  he  tried  to 
decide  what  he  was  going  to  do  and  say.  He  might 
begin  by  thrashing  John  :  he  dismissed  that  idea,  it 
would  be  cowardly  to  thrash  John,  besides  Anne 
was  such  a  heartless  little  beast  he  wasn't  at  all  sure 
she'd  mind  if  he  did. 

He  could  cast  Anne  out  of  his  life.  He  faced  the 
prospect  alone  in  a  comfortable  first-class  smoking 
carriage,  and  it  didn't  appeal  to  him.  He  said  he 
should  dislike  the  scandal,  a  tormenting  imp  in  his 
memory  said  he  would  hate  the  succeeding  dullness 
worse — he  would  miss  Anne.  He  could  marry 
again,  he  assured  himself — someone  who  would 
behave  much  better  than  Anne  had  ever  behaved  ; 
someone  who  would  really  suit  him  ;  someone  with 
whom  he  could  settle  down  placidly,  who  would 


ANNE  319 

respect  his  authority,  be  a  docile  mother  of  the 
children  he  desired.  The  little  imp  countered  this 
with  presentations  of  Anne's  possible  successors,  a 
series  of  colourless,  featureless  specimens  of  feminine 
insipidity.  These  phantoms  all  behaved  irreproach- 
ably as  the  Irish  mail  shot  northwards  through  pale 
corn  fields,  but  Gilbert  wanted  none  of  them ;  in 
fact  his  wrath  against  Anne  flamed  to  a  fiercer  life 
for  consigning  him  to  such  a  fate,  to  such  irritating 
consolation.  Why  the  devil  couldn't  Anne  behave  ? 
She  despised  him,  that  was  why  she  had  dared  to 
defy  him.  He  had  been  weak  with  her — far  too 
indulgent ;  he  had  spoilt  her.  Everyone  had  spoilt 
her.  Well,  he  would  resort  to  other  methods,  he 
would  show  her  that  he  was  to  be  reckoned  with, 
that  she  wasn't  the  only  possessor  of  a  temper. 
He  promised  himself  to  be  brutal  if  necessary. 

She  deserved  to  suffer  and  he  wouldn't  spare  her. 
He  didn't  visualise  the  brutal  unsparing  methods 
he  proposed  adopting  with  Anne,  when  he  found 
her.  He  left  them  vague,  unsculptured  statues  in 
the  unquarried  marble  of  his  imagination ;  he  just 
satisfied  himself  by  knowing  they  were  there,  as  a 
sculptor  views  an  unhewn  block — only  possibly 
the  sculptor  has  evolved  a  clay  model  and  Gilbert 
hadn't  got  as  far  as  that  yet.  His  determination  was 
his  chisel,  he  sharpened  it ;  and  his  anger  was  his 
hammer,  he  kept  testing  it  and  rejoicing  in  its  weight. 
He  was  quite  pleased  when  minor  annoyances 
occurred  on  his  journey  to  keep  his  temper  at  white 
heat — when  the  boat  was  uncomfortably  crowded 
at  Holyhead  ;  and  when  the  train  at  Kingstown  had 
not  waited  for  the  mail  and  there  wasn't  another 
for  some  hours ;  and  when  he  arrived  at  noon  at 


820  ANNE 

Rathgorm  station  and  found  that  B  ally ty rone  was 
eight  miles  away  and  there  was  no  vehicle  available 
to  convey  him  there. 

A  sympathetic  porter  interested  himself  in  his 
predicament. 

"It  is  the  cattle-fair  at  Glendrum,  and  every  hoof 
and  wheel  in  Rathgorm  has  legged  it  away  there 
these  two  hours,  for  there's  horse-racing.  There's 
me  wife's  cousin's  red  pony,  but  he's  as  lame  as  a 
one-legged  duck  and  no  more  pace  in  him  than  an 
ould  turkey-hin,  or  it's  him  would  be  racing  with  the 
best  of  thim.  I  doubt  if  he'd  get  you  to  Ballytyrone, 
the  hills  would  break  his  heart." 

"  I've  got  to  get  to  the  place  somehow." 

"  You  rist  yourself  in  patience  in  the  shade  outside 
here  on  the  high  road.  Maybe  there'll  be  a  cart  or 
something  passing  presently." 

"  I'll  walk."  Gilbert  eyed  the  dusty  road  and  his 
bag  with  disfavour. 

"  Surely  the  warmth  of  the  day  and  the  hills  of  the 
roads  will  destroy  ye  entirely,"  said  the  porter 
amiably. 

A  thick  cloud  of  dust  suddenly  appeared  at  the  end 
of  the  deserted  street,  with  a  few  scurrying  chickens 
whirling  from  it  like  planets  out  of  chaos  in  diagram 
demonstrations  of  the  nebular  hypothesis.  The 
porter  let  forth  a  shrill—"  Hi !  Hi !  "  and  the 
nucleus  of  the  dust  nebula,  a  small  Ford  car,  drew 
up  with  a  jerk  that  rattled  its  component  parts  with 
a  sound  as  of  castanets.  The  occupant  of  the  car, 
a  round-faced  man  in  a  shabby  flannel  suit  and  a 
straw  hat,  gazed  enquiringly  round,  having  first 
glanced  anxiously  at  the  ground  under  his  wheels. 
The  porter  sauntered  across  the  road  to  him,  and, 


ANNE  321 

after  a  brief  colloquy,  returned  to  Gilbert  and  picked 
up  his  bag. 

"  It's  the  doctor,  Dr.  Blacker  ;  he's  going  round 
by  Ballytyrone  and  will  journey  you  there." 

Gilbert  rewarded  his  friend  for  the  introduction 
with  silver  and  expressed  his  gratitude  to  the  doctor. 

"  This  is  uncommonly  good  of  you." 

"  Not  the  least  bit.  Company  is  hard  to  come  by 
in  this  part  of  the  world.  You'll  not  mind  waiting 
at  the  cross  roads  while  I  have  a  squint  at  a  whitlow 
and  a  dislocated  shoulder  ?  " 

Gilbert  was  a  silent  companion  ;  but  there  was  no 
need  for  him  to  speak,  the  doctor  was  charmed  to  do 
all  the  talking  himself,  and  to  supply  all  the  laughter 
his  conversation  required  to  lubricate  it.  Gilbert 
observed  the  scenery  as  he  noticed  the  stones  in  the 
road  as  the  car  bumped  over  them,  with  his  senses  ; 
his  mind  was  entirely  concentrated  upon  framing 
his  forthcoming  conversation  with  Anne.  He  had 
thought  of  harsh  words  and  scathing  sentences  and 
was  afraid  of  forgetting  some  of  them,  or  of  not 
delivering  them  with  sufficient  force.  In  all  such 
mental  rehearsals  of  premeditated  interviews  it  is 
a  help  to  be  able  to  forecast  both  parts  of  the  dialogue, 
but  Gilbert  was  quite  unable  to  imagine  what  Anne 
would  say ;  he  could  only  be  sure  of  his  own  part. 
The  doctor's  monologue  became  clinical ;  he  strove 
to  entertain  his  passenger  with  accounts  of  his 
patients'  more  exciting  pathological  experiences,  and 
Gilbert  welcomed  the  halt  at  the  cross  roads.  When 
the  doctor  restarted  the  car  he  said  : 

"  It  is  to  Kavanagh's  you're  going  at  Ballytyrone  ? 
Ah  !  you'll  find  them  a  bit  upset  yet.  Sad  case 
there — young  Englishman  staying  there  for  a  holiday 


822  ANNE 

— had  had  rheumatic  fever  which  had  left  a  weak 
heart  behind  in  him.  He  felt  rheumatic  pains 
and  instead  of  sending  for  me  he  doses  himself 
with  salicylic  acid :  good  for  rheumatism  of  course, 
infernally  bad  for  hearts." 

"  Is  he  better  ?  " 

"  He  is  not.    He  was  dead  when  I  got  there." 

"  Dead  !    John  Halliday  dead  ?  " 

"  Then  you  knew  him  ?  I'm  sorry  if  he  was  a 
friend  of  yours.  It  is  a  great  shock  for  you.  But 
with  his  heart  in  that  state  of  weakness  he  ought  to 
have  been  under  a  doctor.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  done.  When  my  time  comes  may  I  die  so  gently 
and  quickly.  He  was  buried  yesterday — God  rest 
his  soul  in  peace." 

Gilbert  sat  stunned,  confusedly  striving  to  find 
reasons  for  not  believing  what  he  knew  to  be  true — 
the  first  protective  instinct  of  the  human  mind 
reeling  under  the  shock  of  bad  news.  They  had 
arrived.  He  got  out,  thanked  the  doctor,  and  was 
greeted  by  Mrs.  Kavanagh. 

"  You  have  an  English  lady  staying  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  it  is  Mrs.  Trevor  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,  can  I  see  her  ?  " 

"  Surely  she'll  be  proud  and  pleased,  sir,"  said 
Mrs.  Kavanagh  amiably  ;  "  and  maybe  it  will  do  her 
good.  You'll  find  her  up  the  stairs  in  the  sitting- 
room  with  '  private '  painted  on  the  door,  the  first 
you  come  to." 

It  seemed  mean  to  take  advantage  of  the  woman's 
trustfulness  to  spring  a  surprise  upon  Anne,  but  he 
brushed  the  scruple  aside,  ran  upstairs  and  knocked 
at  the  door  marked  "  Private."  As  there  was  no 
answer  he  opened  the  door  and  looked  in.  Anne 


ANNE  823 

was  lying  limply  in  an  uncomfortable  arm-chair. 
Her  face  was  white  and  drawn  and  there  were  black 
semicircles  under  her  closed  eyes.  She  opened 
them  for  a  moment,  looked  at  him  with  a  painful 
expression  of  bewildered  surprise,  and  then  shut 
them  as  if  the  effort  of  opening  them  hurt  her.  She 
made  an  attempt  to  move,  but  desisted  and  lay  still 
again. 

"  You've  got  one  of  your  bad  headaches !  "  he 
said. 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered  faintly. 

"  You  ought  to  be  in  bed.    No,  don't  try  to  talk." 

"  I  can't— I  feel  sick." 

She  moved  her  hand  to  wave  him  away.  He 
looked  out  into  the  passage.  There  was  no  one 
about.  He  could  hear  Mrs.  Kavanagh's  voice  down- 
stairs, outside  in  the  distance.  Through  an  open 
door  at  the  end  of  the  passage  he  saw  some  of  Anne's 
possessions  ;  he  investigated  further  and  discovered 
it  was  indubitably  her  bedroom.  He  went  back  to 
her. 

*•*  You'd  be  more  comfortable  on  your  bed." 

"  I'm  all  right  here.    I  don't  want  to  move." 

"  Don't,  I'll  carry  you." 

He  lifted  her  very  carefully,  carried  her  to  her 
room  and  gently  laid  her  on  the  bed.  He  knew 
exactly  what  to  do  for  her.  He  took  the  hairpins  out 
of  her  heavy  mass  of  hair,  searched  among  the 
bottles  on  her  dressing-table  till  he  found  some  sal- 
volatile,  mixed  some  and  made  her  drink  it.  Then 
he  soaked  a  handkerchief  in  eau-de-Cologne  laid  it 
on  her  forehead,  covered  her  up,  and  darkened  the 
room  by  pulling  down  a  broken  blind.  He  found 
Mrs.  Kavanagh  and  engaged  a  room  for  the  night. 


324  ANNE 

During  the  afternoon  he  looked  in  at  Anne  at 
intervals,  but  she  lay  in  a  little  crumpled  heap,  half 
dazed  with  pain,  until  she  fell  asleep. 

In  the  evening  he  went  to  the  little  churchyard 
and  stood  by  John's  grave,  and  then  he  walked  up 
and  down  by  the  lake  for  a  long  time  in  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE  next  morning  when  Mrs.  Kavanagh  brought 
him  his  breakfast  she  informed  him  that  Anne  was 
better.  "  But  not  rising  her  head  from  the  pillow, 
and  her  face  as  white  as  the  clane  sheets  and  them 
linen." 

"  She's  had  a  bad  shock,"  he  said.  He  was  so 
sorry  for  her  that  he  rather  shirked  seeing  her.  He 
wondered  whether  it  would  be  more  merciful  if  he 
went  away  and  left  her  alone  ;  but  he  had  to  see 
her,  so  he  decided  that  it  would  be  kinder  to  wait. 
"  Try  and  persuade  her  to  stay  in  bed  and  take 
some  food.  And  ask  her  to  let  me  know  when  she's 
ready  to  see  me."  Mrs.  Kavanagh  returned  with  a 
somewhat  crestfallen  countenance. 

"  She  says  she's  heart-scalded  to  disappoint  you, 
but  it  is  her  bath  she's  wanting,  and  if  it  was  Dublin 
Castle  itself  come  to  see  her  she'd  keep  it  waiting  the 
same  way,  with  no  disrespect  for  yourself." 

So  Gilbert  judged  that  Anne  had  sent  no  message 
at  all,  and  that  Mrs.  Kavanagh  was  shocked  and 
driven  to  imaginative  flights  of  politeness  on  her  own 
account. 

He  spent  a  restless  day  wandering  aimlessly  about 
the  tiny  hamlet  in  a  mood  of  intense  sadness.  Late 
in  the  afternoon  he  was  so  bored  and  depressed  that, 
in  a  spasm  of  weary  curiosity,  he  looked  into  the 

325 


326  ANNE 

little  church  in  search  of  a  moment's  distraction. 
The  stone  floor,  the  distempered  walls  discoloured 
in  patches  by  damp,  the  tawdry  painted  statues, 
made  up  an  unattractive  interior.  On  the  altar, 
and  before  the  images,  were  chipped  glass  vases  full 
of  bunches  of  flowers  from  cottage  gardens,  crudely 
arranged  ;  a  few  thin  candles  were  alight  and  gutter- 
ing before  a  blue  and  white  plaster  figure  of  the 
Virgin  and  Child,  and  an  old  woman  knelt  there,  a 
ragged,  poverty-stricken  figure.  She  rose  as  Gilbert 
stood  there,  and  she  turned  away  with  a  face  so  placid 
and  peaceful  that  he  felt  a  pang  of  envy.  She  went 
out,  and  Gilbert,  alone  in  the  little  chapel,  suddenly 
knelt  on  the  shabby  strip  of  carpet,  laid  his  arms  on 
the  altar  rails  and  bowed  his  head  on  his  arms. 
Silently,  half  subconsciously,  he  prayed,  and  his 
prayer,  if  he  had  translated  it  into  words,  would 
have  shocked  him ;  for  he  was  conventional  to  the 
marrow  of  his  soul,  and  the  gist  of  his  prayer  was : 
"  I  don't  believe  in  religion  much.  I  don't  know  if 
there  is  any  God  to  hear  me.  And  this  church  is 
a  ridiculous  place.  But  I'm  a  rotter,  and  if  there  is 
a  God  He  must  see  me  as  a  puny  rotter ;  but 
I'm  unhappy.  I  want  back  everything  I've  lost. 
I  want  another  chance.  I  don't  want  to  die  like 
poor  old  John.  I  want  Anne.  I  want  her  love  again. 
I  want  a  fresh  start.  Oh  God  !  If  you'll  only  give 
me  what  I  want  I  shall  find  it  much  easier  to  believe 
in  You  ;  and  if  I  believed  in  You  I  should  find  it 
much  easier  to  be  a  better  man,  less  selfish,  less 
weak.  .  .  ." 

As  he  knelt  there  in  silence  he  did  not  hear  a 
very  light  step  at  the  church  door,  did  not  see  Anne 
standing  on  the  threshold  for  a  moment.  She  paused, 


ANNE  827 

saw  him  kneeling  there  and,  as  softly  as  a  little  ghost, 
drew  back  and  went  swiftly  away. 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  he  returned  to  the  inn, 
Mrs.  Kavanagh  told  him  that  Anne  was  out. 

**  She  got  up  and  came  down,  and  wint  out  of  the 
garden.  I  surely  thought  you'd  meet  her." 

"1  didn't,"  he  said  listlessly.  He  sat  down  to  the 
evening  meal  that  was  ready  for  him.  The  girl  who 
waited  on  him  said  : 

"  Michael  Henry  says  he  saw  the  lady  walking  up 
yon  hill." 

The  hill,  indicated  by  the  brandished  dish  of  pota- 
toes, was  covered  with  heather  and  bracken  and 
blackberry  bushes,  and  rough  sheep-tracks  led  round 
its  steep  sides.  It  occurred  to  Gilbert  that  Anne 
might  lose  her  way ;  she  had  no  sense  of  direction, 
and  the  sun  was  setting.  He  decided  to  go  and  find 
her.  He  requested  Mrs.  Kavanagh  to  leave  the  door 
unlocked  in  case  he  came  in  late,  but  it  seemed  that 
the  door  was  not  in  the  habit  of  being  locked  at 
nights.  He  wondered  if  Anne  had  eaten  a  proper 
amount  of  food  ;  he  put  some  biscuits  in  his  pocket, 
and  seeing  a  knitted  coat  of  hers  lying  on  the  chair, 
he  threw  it  over  his  arm.  It  was  like  Anne  to  go 
out  without  her  coat,  said  uneasily-stirring  memories 
that  were  too  tender  to  bear  touching,  except  very 
gently. 

A  collie,  released  from  ill-defined  duties  in  the  yard, 
followed  him  at  a  distance,  hi  the  detached,  deter- 
mined yet  deprecating  way  uninvited  dogs  endeavour 
to  divert  attention  from  their  own  firm  intention  of 
inflicting  their  company  upon  unsociable  pedestrians. 

Gilbert  followed  the  most  direct  path  up  the 
mountain-side.  He  knew  it  was  no  use  looking 


328  ANNE 

for  Anne  on  his  way.  If  she  set  out  to  go  up  a  hill 
she  would  go  to  the  top.  It  took  him  nearly  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  to  reach  the  crest  of  the  hill — 
a  wild,  lonely  place,  where  gorse  bushes  stood  like 
dark  rocks  in  a  purple  sea  of  heather.  Any  human 
figure  within  half  a  mile  could  have  been  seen 
against  the  clear  level  light  of  the  after-glow,  though 
the  sun  had  set ;  but  there  was  no  sign  nor  sound 
of  life  except  the  distant  soft  whurr-oo-oo  of  an  owl, 
until  Tim,  the  collie,  bounding  over  the  deep  heather 
for  the  sheer  joy  of  leaping,  stopped  by  a  gorse-bush 
a  hundred  yards  away,  wagging  his  tail  and  barking 
inquisitively.  Gilbert  made  his  way  through  a  tangle 
of  bracken  and  blackberry  vines  and  whinberry 
bushes,  and  there,  lying  hidden  by  the  knee-deep 
heather  lay  Anne,  sobbing  uncontrollably  as  he  had 
never  seen  her  cry  before,  and  as  if  she  had  been 
crying  for  hours.  She  made  no  sign  of  having  heard 
him  so  he  sat  down  on  a  slab  of  granite  a  yard  or  two 
away  and  waited  for  her  to  stop.  He  waited  for 
what  seemed  to  him  a  long  time.  Her  sobbing  went 
on  till  he  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  knelt  by  her 
side  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Anne — you'll  make  yourself  ill  if  you  cry  any 
more.  You — you  must  try  to  stop.  .  .  ."  He  felt 
for  words  with  awkward  gentleness.  "  It's  awfully 
hard  for  you  .  .  .  losing  John  .  .  .  but  he'd  hate 
you  to  cry  like  this." 

She  didn't  shrink  from  his  touch,  he  could  feel 
the  long  shuddering  sobs  shake  her  whole  slender 
frame.  He  took  his  travelling-flask  from  his  pocket, 
poured  some  wine  into  its  silver  cup  and  put  it  to 
her  lips.  She  drank  a  little  and  made  an  effort  to 
speak  through  her  tears. 


ANNE  329 

"  It  isn't  only  John,"  she  sobbed.  "  It  isn't  only 
John,  though  he's  the  only  friend  I've  got  who  really 
cares.  ...  I  think  he  is  happiest  out  of  a  beastly 
world.  ...  It  is  everything.  .  .  .  I've  made  such 
a  mess  of  everything." 

"  You  have  rather  ;  but  it  won't  help  to  make 
yourself  ill."  She  was  crying  more  quietly  ;  he  sat 
down  in  the  heather  by  her  side  and  waited.  He 
made  no  attempt  to  touch  her  or  comfort  her.  Pre- 
sently she  said  : 

"  You  can  divorce  me  if  you  like — only  don't 
think  wrong  things  about  John.  You  mustn't  bring 
him  into  it — but  I  won't  defend  myself.  And  I  don't 
mind  what  you  say  to  me.  You  can  say  what  you 
like."  , 

"  Look  here,  my  dear,"  he  said  nervously.  "  If 
you  imagine  I've  come  after  you  to  play  the  virtuous 
indignant  husband  you're  making  a  mistake.  If 
you've  made  a  mess  of  things,  so  have  I — rather  a 
heart-breaking  mess.  And  I've — I've  not  much  to 
say  for  myself." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  them.  The 
northern  light  faded,  and  the  sky  darkened  to  deep 
blue  as  the  stars  came  out  and  night  settled  down 
on  the  hills  like  a  great  visible  calm  on  troubled 
waters,  effacing  colours  and  contours  and  all  restless, 
vivid  details.  Anne  never  moved.  He  thought  she 
slept,  and,  wondering  if  she  were  cold,  he  spread 
the  woollen  wrap  over  her ;  but  she  wasn't  asleep, 
she  whispered  a  faint  "  Thank  you."  He  wondered 
whether  she  was  going  to  remain  where  she  was  all 
night,  she  seemed  too  exhausted  to  move.  The 
dog,  after  making  a  tour  of  general  inspection  all 
round,  intimated  that  all  was  well  with  the  hill,  that 


880  ANNE 

there  was  nothing  to  detain  a  conscientious  dog  any 
longer,  and  that  he  was  bored  and  going  home. 

Gilbert  leant  back  against  the  granite  crag  and 
tried  to  think  out  what  he  was  going  to  say — there 
was  so  much  he  had  in  his  mind,  so  much  to  talk  out, 
to  be  explained  away,  to  ask.  Yet,  as  the  time 
passed,  and  more  stars  came  out,  and  the  silence  and 
solitude  and  mystery  of  the  night  soaked  into  his 
soul  like  a  healing  soothing  water,  his  desire  to  talk 
left  him.  The  long,  quiet  moments  of  their  presence 
together  there  submerged  all  possible  arguments, 
and  explanations,  and  appeals,  mere  affairs  of  words, 
as  the  waves  of  a  rising  tide  gradually  drown  in  their 
depths  the  scattered  stones  and  broken  castles  on 
sands  where  children  have  been  playing ;  or  as  a 
supreme  artist  will  efface  futile  irrelevancies  from  a 
finished  work. 

Little  winds  passed  over  the  hill,  sometimes  warm 
from  sheltered  sun-soaked  valleys,  sometimes  cool 
from  oases  of  shade  or  running  water,  but  they  were 
as  soft  and  slow  as  the  few  clouds  that  drifted  across 
the  sky ;  and  neither  breezes  nor  clouds  broke  the 
calmness  and  placid  silence  of  the  night,  both  resembled 
the  rhythmical  breath  of  the  sleeping  world. 

After  a  long  time  Anne  gave  a  deep  quivering 
sigh  that  was  half  a  sob.  Gilbert  bent  over  her  and 
found  that  she  had  fallen  into  a  sleep  of  utter  ex- 
haustion. He  was  afraid  she  would  catch  cold  :  very 
cautiously  and  carefully  he  lay  down  beside  her  in 
the  heather,  slipped  an  arm  under  her,  and,  without 
waking  her,  tucked  the  woollen  coat  round  her  and 
drew  her  into  the  shelter  of  his  own  broad  shoulders. 
She  just  moved  her  head  into  a  more  comfortable  posi- 
tion against  his  coat  and  relaxed  again  utterly,  with 


ANNE  381 

the  confiding  nestling  movement  of  a  very  weary 
child.  Gilbert  laid  his  cheek  on  her  hair  and  fell 
asleep  too.  He  drowsed  fitfully.  Once  she  gave 
a  little  sharp  frightened  cry,  and  started  in  her  sleep, 
and  he  murmured  :  "  It's  all  right,  dear — it's  all 
right,"  and  held  her  close,  and  she  slipped  back  into 
her  dreams. 

She  was  still  asleep  when  he  woke  some  hours 
later.  The  first  colourless  light  of  dawn  was  in  the 
eastern  sky,  and  the  whole  earth  appeared  to  be 
shrouded  in  grey  curtains.  Then  an  arc  of  pale 
pink  colour  crept  above  the  horizon  and  the  greyness 
of  the  rest  of  the  round  world  deepened  in  contrast, 
but  the  greyness  of  the  sky  melted  into  blue,  and, 
as  the  stars  overhead  vanished,  little  stars  emerged 
out  of  the  darkness  on  the  ground,  first  tiny  sparks 
of  white,  then  little  yellow  flowers,  and  the  shrouding 
curtains  of  night  receded  as  a  faint  wind  rose  as  if 
to  blow  them  away.  The  illumined  circle  of  light 
enlarged,  but  Gilbert  had  the  impression  that  the 
sun  was  rising  to  shine  just  on  himself  and  Anne — 
the  rest  of  the  world  was  asleep  and  a-dream  in  the 
valleys,  tucked  away  under  the  grey  quilt  of  darkness 
that  now,  with  the  full  dawn  in  the  sky,  was  not 
darkness,  but  merely  the  absence  of  light,  until  the 
sunlight  appeared  over  the  edge  of  the  world  and 
flooded  the  hills  with  colour  and  vitality. 

Anne  woke  suddenly,  like  a  child,  and  sat  up, 
rubbing  her  eyes.  Her  face  was  pale  and.tear-stained, 
her  eyelids  red  and  swollen.  Her  hair  was  dishevelled 
and  her  dress  crumpled  and  covered  with  crumbs  of 
heather  and  bracken  :  she  look  a  piteous  little  mortal. 

She  glanced  at  Gilbert  with  nervous  apprehension. 
She  had  given  him  an  unequalled  opportunity  for 


332  ANNE 

denouncing  her.  He  had  not  taken  it  when  she  was 
ill,  nor  last  night  when  she  was  worn  out,  and  she 
was  grateful  to  him  ;  but  now  she  did  not  expect 
him  to  spare  her,  and  every  fibre  in  her  spirit  shrank 
from  censure  or  reproaches  as  a  wounded  body 
dreads  an  ungentle  touch.  He  read  the  dread  in  her 
sore,  sensitive  mind,  and,  to  reassure  her,  he  said  in 
a  matter-of-fact  voice  : 

"  Aren't  you  awfully  hungry  ?  Wouldn't  you  like 
some  biscuits  ?  " 

"  Have  you  got  any  ?  " 

"  I  have — some  of  'em  have  got  broken  though." 
He  turned  out  his  pockets,  and  they  ate  the  biscuits, 
and  some  sweet  ripe  whinberries  that  grew  in  pro- 
fusion among  the  heather.  When  they  had  finished 
the  inadequate  meal,  he  rose  and  said  :  "If  you're 
ready  I  suppose  we'd  better  return  to  civilisation, 
baths  and  breakfast." 

He  picked  up  her  hat  for  her  and  shook  two  spiders 
off  it.  She  felt  her  hair  and  tried  to  pin  it  into  some 
sort  of  order  and  they  found  the  path. 

Thin,  purely-white  mists  were  floating  away  from 
the  earth,  leaving  it  sparkling  with  jewels  of  moisture 
that  bediamonded  the  short  fine  grass  under  their 
feet. 

The  joyous,  clear,  clean  morning  air  gave  Anne 
fresh  courage.  The  storm  of  forlorn  misery  that  had 
beaten  her  down  had  passed — and  Gilbert  had  come 
to  her,  and  watched  over  her,  and  stayed  with  her, 
and  had  refrained  from  uttering  one  harsh  word. 
She  wanted  to  match  his  magnanimity.  Everything 
that  was  generous  in  her  nature  yearned  for  expres- 
sion, but  she  was  shy,  and  had  a  curious  conviction 
that  any  words  would  break  the  subtle  but  strong 


ANNE  333 

spell  that  the  silence  under  the  night  stars  seemed 
to  have  woven  between  them,  that  they  should  not 
hurt  each  other.  So  she  didn't  speak  ;  but  as  they 
came  to  a  steep  curve  in  the  path  she  slipped  her 
hand  into  his.  He  gripped  her  little  soft  fingers 
firmly,  steadied  her  steps  down  the  slippery  incline, 
and  then  put  an  arm  round  her,  drew  her  to  him  and 
kissed  the  pale,  sad,  and  not  very  clean  face  she  held 
up.  Then,  as  her  eyes  were  filling  with  tears,  he  gently 
kissed  her  again,  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth,  and  said, 
with  a  queer  jerk  in  his  voice  : 

"Do  you  know  you're  all  stained  with  whinberry 
juice  ?  " 

Whereupon  she  insisted  upon  kneeling  down  by 
a  trickle  of  water,  and  washing  her  face,  and  borrow- 
ing his  handkerchief  to  dry  it,  for  hers  was  useless. 

At  the  inn,  Mrs  Kavanagh  had  not  been  at  all 
concerned  by  her  visitors'  absence.  She  conveyed 
the  impression  that,  though  genially  disposed  towards 
all  men,  she  was  too  deeply  immersed  in  cares  of 
importance  to  be  disturbed  by  the  vagaries  of  mere 
English  tourists.  Anne  stared  in  disgust  at  the  be- 
draggled, tear-stained  apparition  in  her  glass. 

"  /  shouldn't  have  kissed  anyone  looking  like  that 
if  I'd  been  Gilbert,"  she  reflected.  "  I  suppose  he 
really  must  be  fond  of  me." 

She  appeared  at  breakfast,  still  pale,  but  composed 
and  with  her  usual  air  of  self-possession,  the  air 
that  a  consciousness  of  carefully  chosen  clothes  can 
bestow  externally  even  if  the  subject  clothed  is  shy 
and  unhappy. 

"  I  must  telegraph  to  Francesca,"  Gilbert  said. 
"  Shall  I  tell  her  we'll  be  home  to-morrow,  or  are  you 
too  tired  to  start  to-day  ?  " 


884  ANNE 

"  I'm  not  tired." 

They  had  to  pack  and  catch  the  train ;  and,  as 
they  had  to  spend  hours  in  Dublin,  Gilbert  hired  a 
jaunting-car  and  they  saw  the  sights.  He  detested 
sightseeing  in  a  hurry,  but  thought  it  would  be  good 
for  Anne  to  be  tired  out,  and  they  nearly  missed  the 
boat-train,  because  Anne,  whether  she  was  happy 
or  unhappy,  could  never  be  coaxed  away  from  any- 
thing in  which  she  was  interested. 

The  inevitable  reaction  came  later.  When  they 
stood  together  on  the  deck  of  the  mail-boat,  watch- 
ing the  surging  water  widen  between  them  and  the 
Kingstown  lights,  Anne  had  a  mood  of  desolation, 
and  a  momentary  wild  desire  to  communicate  it 
to  Gilbert :  she  wanted  him  to  share  her  bitter 
knowledge  that  quarrels  that  sear  and  wound  leave 
scars  that  ache,  even  after  they  are  healed.  She 
fought  the  impulse  and  conquered  it.  She  was  not 
sure  enough  of  their  relationship  of  reconciliation 
to  jeopardise  it ;  besides,  she  did  not  want  to  hurt 
Gilbert's  feelings  for  the  sake  of  relieving  her  own. 
She  yielded  up  her  will,  and  immediately  felt  a  strange 
surprise  that  the  struggle  was  so  easy. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

FRANCESCA  awaited  them  nervously ;  but  when 
they  arrived  and  she  discerned  that  they  were  both 
more  nervous  than  she  was,  her  common  sense 
asserted  its  authority,  and  she  exerted  herself  to 
divest  the  occasion  of  awkwardness.  Gilbert's  tele- 
gram had  given  her  her  cue,  arid  her  own  affection 
made  it  easy  and  natural  for  her  to  take  Anne  straight 
into  her  arms.  The  only  strangeness  was  due  to 
Anne's  unnatural  docility.  When  Gilbert  declared 
she  was  worn  out  and  ought  to  go  to  bed,  she  meekly 
acquiesced. 

"  She  looks  very  ill,"  Franceses  observed,  alone 
with  Gilbert. 

"  Go  to  her  presently.  Perhaps  she'll  talk  to  you. 
We — we've  made  it  all  right,"  he  said  slowly,  "  but 
it  is  difficult  for  her.  She's  come  up  against  some- 
thing that  has  hurt  her  badly  and  I'm  not  the  right 
person  to  help  her.  I  rather  think  it  would  help  her 
to  talk  about  John,  and  she  can't  do  that  to  me, 

yet." 

Francesca  looked  at  him  curiously :  she  had  an 
uncanny  feeling  that  a  new,  changed  brother  had 
come  back  to  her.  She  went  upstairs.  Anne  was  in 
bed.  She  greeted  Francesca  with : 

"  Well  ?  "  and  contrived  to  make  the  mono- 
syllable convey  defiance,  a  deprecating  plea  for  a 

335 


336  ANNE 

merciful  judgment,  hostility,  a  yearning  for  affection, 
suspicion,  and  trustfulness. 

"  My  dear,  you  must  be  very  tired.  Gilbert  tells 
me  you've  not  been  to  bed  for  two  nights.  Why  not, 
I  cannot  imagine.  It  seems  very  bad  manage- 
ment." 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  Anne  rejoined  with  weary 
impatience. 

"  You're  worn  out.    Does  your  head  ache  ?  " 

"  No.    My  mind  does  though.  .  .  .  Francesca  ..." 

"  Well  ?." 

In  Francesca's  "  well  "  was  sympathy,  discretion, 
and  patience,  with  a  human  curiosity  lurking  under- 
neath. 

Anne  was  lying  flat  on  her  back,  her  hands  behind 
her  head,  her  small  face  framed  by  her  two  long 
heavy  plaits  of  hair.  She  looked  very  like  a  small 
worried  child  who  had  been  sent  to  bed  in  dis- 
grace. Anne's  curiosity  was  either  livelier  or  less 
disciplined. 

"  What  is  in  your  mind  ?  "  she  asked  restlessly. 
"  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 

Francesca  smiled  tenderly  ;  it  was  so  like  Anne 
to  do  preposterous  things  and  then  yearn  for  approba- 
tion. 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  have  you  back,  dear." 

Underneath  Anne's  uppermost  characteristics  was 
a  solid  strata  of  honesty,  she  turned  away  and  hid 
her  face  in  her  pillow. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  what  happened,"  she  said  in 
a  muffled  voice.  "  I  was  sorry  for  John.  .  .  ." 

"  I  think  I  understand,  Anne  dear." 

"  No  you  don't.  Nobody  could  understand  a 
selfish  little  beast  like  me." 


ANNE  337 

"  You  couldn't  bear  him  to  go  away  alone,  he  was 
so  ill  and  lonely.  ..." 

"  And  a  Catholic." 

"  Anne  dearest — there  I  don't  follow  you  ! — One 
.  .  .  one  doesn't  run  away  with  a  man  because  he's 
a  Catholic." 

"  I  did.  I  thought  he  must  be  so  miserable  to 
become  one  and  I  hated  feeling  he'd  gone  where  I 
couldn't  follow  him.  He  was  my  friend  and — 
and  .  .  ." 

"  And  so  you  determined  to  try  conclusions  with 
the  Catholic  Church  ?  Really,  Anne  dearest,  you 
are  .  .  ." 

Francesca  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  bedside  and 
gave  up  a  search  for  words. 

"  Are  you  shocked  or  something  ?  "  came  from 
the  depths  of  the  pillow. 

"  I'm  only  puzzled." 

"  And  it  wasn't  only  that  I  was  sorry  for  John,  I 
was  sorry  for  myself.  Gilbert  didn't  want  me,  and 
it  seemed  such  a  waste  of  me  if  John  did  !  Besides  I 
thought  I'd  be  happier  with  John.  He  never  minded 
what  I  did,  he  always  thought  I  was  perfect.  So 
I  went.  But  when  we  got  there,  it  wasn't  at  all  as 
I  thought  it  would  be.  He  tried  to  make  me  see  that 
I  wasn't  really  in  love  with  him — that  it  was  always 
Gilbert,  even  when  we  quarrelled :  and  I  didn't 
want  to  see  it.  It  made  me  feel  a  fool  and  a  failure. 
I  didn't  want  to  be  treated  like  a  child  after  I'd 
burnt  all  my  boats  and  run  away  with  him.  It 
annoyed  me.  It  was  all  my  dreadful  vanity — I 
couldn't  bear  to  admit  I  was  wrong  and  I  couldn't 
bear  John  to  behave  as  if  he  were  my  grandfather. 
I  wanted  him  not  to  be  able  to  resist  me.  He  was 


338  ANNE 

determined  not  to  compromise  me.  After  he'd  gone 
to  bed,  I  thought  and  I  thought,  and  I  suddenly  put 
on  my  dressing-gown  and  went  to  his  room  to  tell 
him  he  was  all  wrong — and  when  I  got  there  he  was 
ill,  and  he  thought  I'd  come  to  take  care  of  him. 
I  called  the  woman  and  she  sent  for  the  doctor  and 
the  priest.  But  it  was  no  use.  He  died." 

"  He  didn't  die  alone.    You  were  with  him." 

"  Yes :  but  I  ...  I  tried  to  tell  him  I  would  try 
to  be  good — as  good  as  he  thought  I  was,  but  I  don't 
know  whether  he  heard  .  .  .  and  then  Gilbert  came 
and  was  kind.  I'd  almost  rather  he'd  knocked  me 
down — not  for  anything  I'd  done  to  him,  but  for 
the  way  I'd  behaved  to  John — I  wasn't  fair  to  him.  I 
oughtn't  to  be  pitied  and  petted.  I  ought  to  be  treated 
with  contempt.  I  can't  tell  Gilbert;  so  I've  made 
myself  tell  you." 

Anne  turned  her  head  and  there  was  an  expression 
of  pain  and  humiliation  in  her  face  that  moved  Fran- 
cesca  profoundly. 

"  Do  you  know  why  you  can't  tell  Gilbert  ?  " 

"  Because  I  won't,  I  suppose." 

"  Because  John  was  right :  you  can't  bear 
Gilbert  to  think  hard  things  of  you.  You  do  care 
for  him." 

There  was  thankfulness  in  Francesca's  voice. 

"  I've  made  you  think  hard  things  of  me." 

"  Not  very  hard  things,  my  dear.  Besides,  if  you 
came  and  confessed  you'd  committed  a  murder  my 
instinct  would  be  to  find  excuses  for  you." 

"  I  wonder  why." 

'*  Because  I  love  you,  I  suppose." 

She  stooped  to  kiss  her  and  Anne's  arms  were 
round  her  neck. 


ANNE  389 

Franceses  had  her  heart's  desire.  She  had  Gilbert 
again,  and  Anne  was  restored  to  her ;  yet  she  was 
dissatisfied  as  the  days  passed.  There  was  a  tense, 
inexplicable  sense  of  strain  in  the  household,  which 
was  not  attributable  to  any  fault  of  Anne's,  because 
Anne  was  unnaturally  and  angelically  good.  A  little 
listlessly,  but  humbly  and  meekly  docile,  she  took 
her  part  in  the  family  with  the  painfully  self-conscious, 
almost  extravagantly  exemplary  behaviour  of  a  con- 
scientious child  who  has  been  let  off  a  richly  deserved 
chastisement  and  wishes  the  world  to  bear  witness 
to  a  complete  reformation.  When  this  mood  had 
lasted  for  a  week  Francesca  expressed  her  fears  that 
Anne  was  on  the  verge  of  a  nervous  breakdown.  She 
broached  the  matter  after  breakfast  one  hot  morning 
when  she  and  Gilbert  were  sitting  in  the  shade  of  the 
cedar  tree,  dividing  The  Times  between  them.  Anne 
had  wandered  off  and  was  engaged  in  the  virtuous 
occupation  of  ridding  a  hedge  of  sweet-peas  of  seed- 
pods. 

"  It  is  too  hot  for  her  in  the  sun,"  Francesca 
observed.  **  Gilbert,  she  really  can't  be  well.  It 
isn't  like  her  to  be  so — so  pathetically  quiet  and 
thoughtful.  She  has  suffered,  poor  child.  I'm  sure 
it  is  affecting  her  health.  Don't  you  think  we'd 
better  persuade  her  to  see  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  worry  ;  she  won't  be  able 
>to  keep  it  up  much  longer.  She's  just  being  a  re- 
formed character  and  she's  overdoing  it.  It  must 
be  a  bit  of  a  strain." 

He  threw  down  The  Times  and  strolled  towards  the 
flower  garden  calling  to  her  : 

"  Anne  I  I  say  Anne !  Stop  playing  under- 
gardener  and  come  out  of  the  sun."  To  his  mild 


840  ANNE 

surprise  she  obediently  put  down  her  scissors  and 
basket  and  came  to  him.  He  took  her  arm  and 
piloted  her  down  a  path  in  the  shade  of  a  yew  hedge. 

"  Anne  !  You're  being  very  sweet  and  very  good, 
but  you're  rather  getting  on  our  nerves." 

"  I  am  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  feel  quite  comfortable.  You're 
a  bit  of  a  changeling.  Where's  the  little  devil  I 
married  ?  " 

"  I  hope  she's  dead.  I'd  like  to  think  she  died 
that  night  on  the  hill  at  Wicklow." 

He  stopped  and  laid  both  hands  on  her  shoulders, 
drawing  her  to  him. 

"  But  I  wouldn't.  I  ...  I  want  her  back ! 
Anne,  that  night  you  said  John  was  the  only  friend 
you'd  got  who  really  cared — that  wasn't  true,  my 
dear.  Aren't  I  your  friend  ?  Don't  I  care  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ?  " 

He  kissed  her,  then  she  hid  her  face  against  his 
arm. 

"  Gilbert — let  me  talk.  I  want  to  tell  you.  I — 
I'm  not  sorry  I  went  to  Ireland  with  John.  If  I've 
made  you  imagine  that  I've  acted  a  lie.  .  .  ." 

"  I  never  thought  that.  I  know  you  too  well.  He 
was  a  better  man  than  I  am,  I  know  that :  but  you 
didn't  go  with  him  because  you  hated  me.  You 
were  sorry  for  him." 

"  My  motives  are  always  so  mixed  up.  If  there 
is  a  good  one  it  gets  all  tangled  up  with  bad  ones. 
John  told  me  I  went  partly  to  be  beastly  to  you. 
It  was  partly  that,  mostly  for  John's  sake,  and  partly 
because  I  thought  you'd  really  be  rather  glad  to  get 
rid  of  me." 

"  What  a  little  ass  you  can  be  1  " 


ANNE  341 

"  Well,  you  could  easily  have  married  someone 
better." 

"  Did  you  want  me  to  ?  " 

"  No  :   of  course  not." 

"  Then  I  don't  understand  .  .  ." 

"  Neither  do  I.  John  seemed  to  understand, 
but  then  he  believed  marriage  is  a  sacrament." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  "  Gilbert,  I  did  care  awfully 
for  John.  I  was  prepared  to  throw  up  everything 
to  give  him  a  share  of  happiness  and  it  all  went 
wrong.  I  just  worried  and  dismayed  him  really.  It 
always  did  if  I  behaved  badly.  And  now  I  feel  I 
ought  to  be  miserable  always,  just  to  punish  myself, 
but  one  can't  be  miserable  without  punishing  other 
people  too — and  that  isn't  fair." 

"  No — it  isn't  fair,  and  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  poor 
old  John.  I  mean,  it  isn't  what  he'd  want,  and  if 
he  knows,  it  would  make  him  miserable  too." 

"  The  only  alternative  is  to  come  back  to  you  and 
behave  like  a  perfect  lady  and  be  happy,  and  that 
seems  so  selfish." 

"  It  isn't.  It  is  selfishness,  I  suppose,  that  wrecks 
happiness,  especially  in  marriage.  I  fancy  happiness 
is  a  responsibility,  as  much  as  money."  His  voice 
shook  with  nervousness  ;  it  was  difficult  for  him  to 
break  down  his  reserve.  He  had  meant  to  confide 
in  Anne  some  of  the  thoughts  that  were  stirring  in 
his  heart,  but  he  had  fancied  he  would  choose  one 
evening  in  the  secrecy  of  darkness  :  however,  Anne 
had  chosen  the  searching  daylight  of  ten  o'clock  in 
the  morning  and  he  went  on  doggedly,  "  One  ought 
to  take  care  of  it,  share  it,  but  be  willing  to  make 
sacrifices  to  keep  it — and  hold  it  in  trust  to  hand 
on  to  one's  children." 


842  ANNE 

"  No  children  could  be  quite  so  darling  as  Phil ! 
They  might  be  as  pretty,  and  as  naughty  and  sweet," 
she  said  with  wistful  decision.  "  I'd  like  five  1  " 

"  Good  Lord,  Anne,  darling  !  " 

Francesca,  left  to  herself,  gave  but  intermittent 
attention  to  the  important  events  of  both  hemispheres 
chronicled  in  the  newspaper  she  was  reading ;  her 
anxious  mind  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  dark 
hedge  with  Gilbert  and  Anne,  until  a  sound  reached 
her  that  broke  the  long,  unhappy  tension  and  gave 
her  a  blessed  reassurance  that  set  her  heart  at  rest — 
they  were  both  laughing. 

TEE  END 


A     000127915     7 


